


The Customer Is Always Right

by flannelcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Asexual Character, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Demisexuality, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic, Dominant Castiel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Escort Service, M/M, Miscommunication, Multi, Panties, Panty Kink, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Dean, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Voyeur Castiel, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very quickly, Gabriel decides this is a very bad idea.<br/>And, shit, he's had his fair share of bad ideas. That one time he stole a Swiss watch and tried to sell it on eBay? Pretty bad idea. Or the time he agreed to drive the getaway car for a handful of meth heads who thought they could rob a liquor store and get away with it? Damn, how did he ever think that would end well?<br/>But this. This takes the cake.<br/>In summary, Gabriel works as an escort (upon being promised a lump sum of six thousand dollars for one month of 'services') and his first clients are Dean and Castiel. Thing is, they're so gone on each other. Where does he fit in?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Customer Is Always Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themothandthestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themothandthestars/gifts).



> Based off [this prompt](http://static.tumblr.com/4adsvks/nOwn1qql9/screen_shot_2014-02-28_at_11.45.24_pm.jpg) for [themothandthestars](http://themothandthestars.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.
> 
> All mistakes made are my own! I am bad at beta-ing my own work.
> 
> All rights reserved to the creators of Supernatural. 
> 
> All aspects of this fiction related to asexuality and demisexuality are based on Internet research and talking to other people, as I am neither! If I had made any incredible errors in its portrayal, let me know and I will try to adjust this to more accurately represent the community.

Very quickly, Gabriel decides this is a very bad idea.

And, shit, he's had his fair share of bad ideas. That one time he stole a Swiss watch and tried to sell it on eBay? Pretty bad idea. Or the time he agreed to drive the getaway car for a handful of meth heads who thought they could rob a liquor store and get away with it? Damn, how did he ever think that would end well?

But this. This takes the cake.

Gabriel's jaw is slack as his eyes skim over the checklist in his lap. Rimming, Oral sex, double penetration—the most tame of the "Willing to participate in and/or perform" section of his job application.

Dear god, he's an idiot.

Still, he doesn't give the clipboard back to the receptionist. Instead, he visibly cringes as he checks almost all the boxes. Almost, not all; despite the fact Gabriel is a kinky son of a bitch, he is so not into some of the 'options'. Watersports? No. Sadomasochism? Hell to the no.

His brows are cocked by the time he finishes that section of the form. The others are way more...clinical. Days since last sexual encounter? A long ass time. Date since last check up? Yesterday, and Gabriel pulls the squeaky-clean test results from the inner pocket of his jacket and adds it to the stack of his application.

After finishing all the forms, including scribbling his John Hancock on the confidentiality agreement, Gabriel gets out of his seat and takes the clipboard up to the receptionist.

She's really pretty: big breasts, chocolate skin and plush lips. Totally Gabe's type if, you know, he wasn't about to become a male escort.

She looks up from her computer as Gabriel leans up against the side of her desk.

"Here you go, babe," he says with a wink.

Unimpressed, she takes the clipboard and flips through. She smacks a piece of chewing gum in her mouth. "You can take a seat. Mr. Adler will be with you shortly."

Gabriel pouts, defeated in his fruitless flirting. There's a bowl of cinnamon mints sitting on the desk; he takes a handful and pops them into his mouth. The receptionist narrows her gaze as Gabriel sits back down.

There really is no going back now. He has all but signed his name is blood. He's going to be a de-facto prostitute for fuck's sake. Still, he isn't running away. Admittedly, it's because he's desperate. He's been living on the wrong side of the tracks for too long; considering his roots, it's a miracle he's still alive. Sure, this is the craziest thing he's ever done, but it's something he has to do.

It's a get in, get out operation. One month and six thousand dollars for a little sex? It may not be a bad idea, but Gabriel's always been short on good ones.

 

* * *

 

"Mr. Adler will see you now."

Nerves well in his throat as he wipes his clammy palms against his thighs. He puts on a pleased smile, though, borderline between faking it and hysterical.

The receptionist gestures to the door behind her, and Gabriel turns the knob and pushes it open.

Inside is just a normal office. Not a sex dungeon where Gabe might get a needle his throat and wake up in Cambodia as a sex slave. Even better, the man behind the expansive mahogany desk (which, by the way, screams 'my desk is overcompensating for my tiny impotent dick') is a bald headed man who should be selling used vacuum cleaners.

"Good to meet you, Mr. Adler," Gabriel blurts, tongue way too loose. "Sexual deviant, Gabriel Shurely, reporting for booty—I mean duty."

Adler looks at him for a few seconds, disgust riddling his expressing, before he points to the chair in front of his desk. "Just sit down."

Gabriel sighs and falls into his seat, knowing already that this guy was gonna be a tough crowd. Not the first time he's had to get people used to him.

"Before you get any ideas, Mr. Shurely, let me make myself clear: we are not friends. I will not speak to you, ever, until the day comes that you hand me your notarized release from your contract." Adler pulls a single sheet of paper and slides it across the desk, followed by a gold ballpoint pen. "Which you will sign now."

"Wait, wait. I don't even get to ask questions first?"

Adler glares. "What do you possibly need to ask?"

"What if, you know, a client goes nuts? Like, I authorized some intense kinks, man. I got a wild imagination, and letting someone do that shit? Yeah, that could end really badly."

"Your terms with each client are negotiable, and it's your job to negotiate. The agency does not pick your safe word."

"So if I don't want to be with a client..."

"Let me be clear on one matter: I am not your pimp. This agency is not in the business of selling your ass. We are in the business of selling your time. This application?" He waves Gabriel's file in the air. "Merely a guide to allocate your time wisely. For your sake and the clients’. Upon that foundation, you may choose not to share your time with a client, but that does not null this contract. You will be transferred to another client. And I will be very unhappy."

"Yeah, wouldn't want to fuck up your cheery disposition," Gabriel mutters.

Adler leans across his desk and spits, "No, you certainly don't." He leans back, cold expression falling off his face. It's replaced with a bullshit smile that reminds Gabriel how stupid he is for even considering this. "Any more questions?"

Wordless, without even a snide remark, he picks up his pen and signs his name across the bottom of the page. When he's done, he shoves the pen in his jacket pocket and stands up. Adler didn't see, so he figures it's a good enough signing bonus.

"Very good. Becky, your handler, will be in touch."

"She'll call me?"

"She will. I suggest you be waiting by the phone, as many...transactions are short notice." Adler's smile melts, eyes glinting with something cruel. "You may leave now, Mr. Shurely."

 

* * *

 

His ‘handler’ (Gabe giddily stumbles across the title. It’s like he has a bodyguard or something), Becky, calls him only three days later. It’s a Friday, and Gabe spends his Fridays scrubbing tables at a patisserie down the street. He likes the job a lot, because he shamelessly will eat the customer’s leftovers. A quick plate-lick here and there. He avoids the pieces that have been deliberately bitten off of (most of the time).

In addition to free sweet treats, the boss man doesn’t care what Gabe does as long as he does his job. So when he feels his cell phone vibrate in his apron, Gabriel doesn’t hesitate to answer it and then wedge it between his shoulder and chin while he continues to clean tables.

“Gabe Shurely here.”

“Hey there Gabe,” comes a particularly high (almost screechy) voice. Gabriel winces slightly, dropping his rag momentarily to turn down the volume on his cell. “This is Becky Rosen, I work for Rogue Agency.”

Shit, Gabe fumbles around for some words—any words—as he looks for an opportunity to go somewhere quiet. “Um, hey ho Becky-babe, can you hold the phone for a sec?” he says and then covers the mouthpiece. “Yo, Sammy?”

The eighteen-or-something cashier, Sam, looks up from the textbook sprawled in front of him on the counter. He perks up at Gabriel calling for him.

“What is it Gabe?” he says tiredly, maybe because of the nickname.

He points to his phone vaguely and says, “Need to take this. Hold down the fort?”

Sam rolls his eyes and then returns his gaze to his book.

In the clear, Gabe sprints back into the kitchen, and then hurries into the employee bathroom and closes the door. “You still there Becky?”

“Sure am!” comes a reply. “I’ve got you set up with the perfect clients, Gabe. Would you be able to rendezvous tonight at seven?”

“Rendezvous? Am I double-oh-seven or something? And—erm, clients?” Gabriel’s voice contagiously adopts a high (somewhat concerned) pitch.

Becky chuckled. “Oh, you’re a funny one. They want to meet you, babe. Saw your profile and were insanely interested in meeting you. Though you might want to tone it down, one of the guys is kind of. Well, not dull. I can’t think of the right word at this very second, but I think you and his boyfriend will get along great! And they’re both really cute.”

“So—so it’s a threesome!”

“Oh hush, didn’t Mr. Adler tell you? I’m not selling your ass I’m—”

“Selling my time,” Gabriel sighs and wipes his hand across his brow. “Got that. So I’m going to be sharing my time with two dudes.”

“Correct.”

“Okay,” Gabriel concedes, a little nauseated. “Sign me up for the whole shebang.”

“They just want to meet you to make sure they know what they’re getting into. They’re looking for a short term commitment.”

Short-term commitment. How long is short—hopefully not an entire month. Gabriel doesn’t think he could handle two people paying him for—for sex. For that long. The shame might riddle him like Swiss cheese, eat him alive.

“I—yeah, sure. Lets do it,” Gabriel exclaims with a false excitement that’s actually really believable.

“Be ready at six-thirty. One of our authorized drivers will drive you to their house. It’s gonna be great Gabe!” Becky is starting to sound more like a cheerleader than a ‘handler’. “Oh, and let me just give you a brief reminder about your confidentiality agreement. It comes into play with clients like the ones you got tonight. If you violate it, you will pay.”

How she still sounds chipper when threatening latent violence, Gabriel will never understand. He presses his back against the door and closes his eyes. “Got it, sugar.”

“Great! I’ll let them know. Make sure you dress nicely!” And then the line goes dead.

Gabriel feels a weight drop in his chest when he realizes nothing in his wardrobe qualifies as nice.

Then again, the weight of Adler’s gold pen is heavy in his pocket. He could probably sell it and get proper ‘nice’ attire.

* * *

 

He holds his hands over the fire, listening to the slow and erratic crackle of wood. It heats his skin, and slowly heats the ring on his left hand as well. A simple, silver band. A promise of something to come. A promise that he truly hopes he can keep.

Castiel starts when he feels two hands sliding down his sides. Fingers massage through the cinched waist of his suit, and rest on his hips so naturally. Yet Castiel finds himself tense, body swollen with nerves and—and hope.

“You cold?” comes Dean’s voice over his shoulder. A burst of warmth, not caused by the fire, fills Castiel’s chest when Dean’s chin rests on his shoulders. His lips at the curve of his ear.

“A little,” he answers quietly, voice thick and rough like gravel. “My feet are more cold, than anything.”

Dean lets out a little sigh, his breath washing against Castiel’s ear, his cheek. “Me too. But we need this, right?” There is a rare note of hope in Dean’s voice, one that causes Castiel’s eyes to fall upon the band upon his finger. He slowly turns, grasping Dean by the shoulder, offering a small grin. An invitation. Dean’s eyes light up at the offer, and he takes it immediately by pressing his lips against Castiel’s. The kiss is stiff, despite Castiel’s efforts to open himself. He always tries so hard to let Dean have this small piece of him. There is so much love encased in his being, so much need to express it, but there has always been a barrier. It’s composed of mortar and bricks, frustration and fear. Even his love for Dean cannot break it, or the reciprocation.

After a few seconds of Dean kissing him, and Castiel wincing and just surviving it, he pulls back. The wretched pang of shame that goes through his chest reminds him that, yes. They need this. They need something, anything, to ensure that he will not lose the only man he will ever love.

 

* * *

 

So the clients—damn, Gabriel still can’t wrap his mind around the word, it’s a reminder of the absurdity of his new job—live in a huge, gated community. A really wealthy community. Gabriel has a fleeting thought that these dudes are probably rich enough to kill him and make it look like an accident. Is there a price for Rogue Agency to sell their client’s lives? Shit, he should have read that contract better. Not better. He should have read it, period.

He palms at his thighs, trying to wipe off as much as the moisture as he can. Gabe can’t help it—he perspires like a motherfucker when he’s nervous. The car begins to slow, causing Gabriel’s posture to sharpen as he peers out the tinted window. They are rolling into a driveway of a really fucking nice house. Really, it could be the freaking president’s summer home or something. It’s nicely landscaped with rose bushes (partially covered with snow, but Gabriel recognizes them easily) and little pine trees.

Dare he say it, but the house is pretty adorable, despite its unearthly hugeness.

Gabriel thanks the driver and tells the guy to pick him up around nine. That should give him plenty of time to chitchat with the couple, see what they’re all about. Even though Adler told him that he reserved the right to reject clients, he didn’t want to seem like a bad sport by rejecting his firsts. Before they even swapped sexy favors.

The walk to the front door is slow; short strides combined with short legs, he is trying to prolong this pre-walk-of-shame as much as he can. His vision blurs when he is finally in front of the door, knuckles raised to knock.

And he does. He knocks.

Gabriel takes a deep breath and then exhales; he exhales his worry and fear, and replaces it with a signature smile just in time. The door swings open soundlessly on its hinges.

Damn, if Gabriel were watching this guy from afar, he would whistle. And probably follow him around like a puppy dog trying to flirt with him. He looks like he’s stumbled out of some All American porno; his hair gelled up and button up...not really buttoned all the way.

“Hey,” the guy says, looking at him with a funny expression. Oh, that may be because Gabriel is still smiling, like he’s waiting for a camera flash or something. Oops. He wipes his face clean and clears his throat.

“Um, hi-ho, there!” Gabe says, wincing at his taste in words. He sticks out his hand and smiles, a little softer now. “I’m Gabriel.”

“Dean,” the other man answers, and yeah, the name really fits the chiseled face. He shakes Gabriel’s hand firmly, before releasing it and stepping back. “Come on in.”

Gabriel steps into the foyer and wonders briefly if he should take off his shoes. His eyes flick down to Dean’s feet, and he’s wearing sneakers—well, that answers his initial question. And now he’s wondering if he’s overdressed. His dress pants, brand spanking new, rustle slightly with each step he takes. His also-new black shoes dig at his heels, because they aren’t broken in.

Dean stops walking, pausing to turn around. He looks extremely uncomfortable, maybe just as nervous as Gabriel feels. That makes him feel a little better. “Dinner’s just about ready. Cas cooks,” is all Dean mumbles, and then begins walking again. He doesn’t tell him to stop, so he fumbles behind him.

They’re in the formal dining room now. The table is already set for three, two seats on one side, and then one setting opposite of them. Gabriel automatically knows where his seat will be. But he waits for Dean to gesture to it, inviting him to sit down.

He remains silent. Tame. Maybe he’ll warm up to this, the position he’s putting himself into. He has no idea that these dudes will even like him enough to take him on as their long-term play thing. A sick part of Gabriel just wants to please them, be accepted. Be steady. Because if Becky is right and they want something for the long run, that would mean selling his ass to less Johns (or Janes for that matter). Maybe he could live the rest of his life without this scarlet P on his chest, pretend he wasn’t a prostitute, if he just had sex with two guys.

“So,” Dean says suddenly, making Gabe jump. The corner of Dean’s mouth hitches, trying to hide a smile. “Um, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I don’t scare easily, Dean-o,” Gabriel says with a wink, slipping into more comfortable flirty shoes.

“Uh, okay.” He clears his throat. “I was gonna ask if you like tilapia.”

“Seafood is my favorite,” Gabriel replies conversationally. “I used to be a sushi chef.”

And then Dean smiles and it could light up a room. He casts his eyes down to his empty plate, sheepish yet happy. “That sounds like a story.”

“It is,” Gabe agrees. His expression fades from playful to...warm? He can feel his lips curve upward softly, eyes watching Dean return the smile. “One that I’d be glad to tell.”

For half a second, Gabriel swears that they actually are sharing a moment. Dean is suddenly the least threatening thing in the world and he feels ridiculous for thinking that he was going to get axed tonight.

“Hello.” Gabriel jerks in his seat at the sound of a new, much more rough voice coming from his side. Standing in the arch leading from what seems to be the kitchen to the dining area, is a man dressed in an ironed black suit. Around his neck hangs a loosely knotted tie, in his hands a dishtowel he wrings over his long fingers. Now this man. He is attractive in a totally different way than Dean. He’s not this all-American babe; he looks more like he stepped out of the Mediterranean Sea. His messy dark hair and piercing blue eyes are reminiscent of old painting of Greek gods.

“Hey!” Gabriel stands up from his seat, meeting the new guy half way for another handshake. “My name’s Gabriel.”

“Yes,” the other man says, staring at him. Really creepily. Gabe can’t decide if he’s freaked out or slightly turned on. “I am Castiel.”

It’s a fitting name. It’s exotic and strange, much like that fervent gaze being thrown his way. “Good to meet you. Both of you.” He looks at Dean, who offers him a nod of acknowledgment.”

“It’s a pleasure, Gabriel,” says Castiel with a small smile. “Would you mind helping me set the table?”

“Need help, babe?” Dean says as he begins to push away from the table and stand up.

“No,” Castiel answers quickly, lips pressing as he casts a glance to Gabriel. “We will be fine.”

 

* * *

 

Much of the dinner passes in a truly painful silence. Gabriel eats his food, comforted that Dean is attentive to table manners as he usually is. Gabriel glances up, seeing Dean chew chunks of fish with a seemingly unhinged jaw; next to him, Castiel eats like bird. Small bites, delicate chewing. Gabriel tries to eat as normally impossible, in fear of those wide blue eyes casting judgment upon him.

The two men are nothing alike. He would have never pegged Dean as being anything other than straight. Besides the glances he casts to his side occasionally, there is no physical affection. No handholding, no touching elbows. Gabriel thinks that maybe Dean isn’t really comfortable with his sexuality. Maybe he’s in the closet. Nonetheless, Castiel shares his affectionate gazes. Smiles even, before resuming eating.

“How long have you guys been together?” Gabriel finds himself asking around a mouthful of rice. Heat pushing into his cheeks, he finishes chewing and then takes a drink of water. “If you’re...together…I mean—”

“We’re engaged,” Castiel interjects helpfully, letting Gabriel’s sputtering trail off. He even smiles a little across the table as he gently props his fork against the edge of the plate. “But we have been together for about ten years.”

“Damn,” Gabe breathes.

“And before that, we knew each other. Best friends you might say.” Castiel looks to his side, eyes soft.

Dean looks up to meet his gaze, and it looks like he’s about to just go for it and kiss the hell out of his guy. But then he must remember he has an audience, and drops his eyes away from Castiel’s lips to the table. “Yeah, since we were twelve. When we were in college… I guess we figured out we weren’t really friends. It took me a long time to get used to sayin’ it, you know. That I loved him. That I do love him.”

Gabriel feels his cheeks flush at just how freaking bashful Dean looks. “That’s so sweet I think I’m gonna get a cavity,” Gabe laughs and bites his lip. “I—why am I hear? You guys are so, I don’t know. You’re together. Nothing like I expected.”

Leaning slightly forward, arms folded against his edge of the table, Castiel asks, “And what is it that you expected? Shouldn’t your...your line of work prepare you for, the unknown?” He really doesn’t sound rude, just quiet and inquisitive. Even with his rougher-than-sandpaper voice, it’s still soft.

“Well,” Gabriel begins, crossing his ankles and trying to look relaxed, even though his nerves are threatening to regurgitate the wonderful tilapia he just ate. “You two are my first clients. So, to answer your question: I don’t know what to expect because I haven’t done anything like this before.”

For the first time, there is a distinct resemblance between the two men as their brows raise, and they both lean back. It’s a reaction he would expect to see similar between two people who’ve known each other almost twenty years. It just makes Gabriel all the more uncomfortable. He can’t tell if they’re just radiating shock or some mixture of surprise and pity. He hopes that there’s no pity. He already pities himself enough.

“But, don’t you fellas worry. I got a lot of sexy tricks up my sleeve. So. Whenever you’re ready… I’ll make sure I’m ready if you know what I mean.” Gabriel winks despite himself. His mind races back to sitting in that waiting room, checking off dozens of kinks that he’s willing to do, but has never done. “You know what I mean, right?”

“Well I suppose that this is only appropriate,” Castiel tells Dean, failing to answer Gabriel. “Considering…”

“What?” Gabe mutters.

“We haven’t done this before, either, man,” Dean blurts, tired sounding. The man wipes a hand across his brow, his eyes, only seeming more exasperated. “This—this isn’t something I do, that we do. We have to do it though.”

Castiel lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder, causing the other mean to relax. His shoulders instantly fall back at the touch. “Allow me to elaborate. May I, Dean?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“I am asexual,” Castiel says finally, releasing a long breath with the words. “Maybe more demisexual, I’m not sure. All I know is that it is...truly uncomfortable to participate in intercourse with others, most of the time. Perhaps the greatest reason Dean’s relationship and mine took so long to progress is that I sent so many mixed signals. I had deep emotions for him for years, but all of Dean’s efforts to illustrate reciprocation...they backfired. Because he is very sexual.”

“Man of actions, not words, I get it,” Gabriel says, stunning himself when he realizes that he’s comforting Dean.

“Well, yes, he acted on his emotions and I was closed off. It wasn’t until I explained to him that I did not enjoy sexual intimacy that we could finally find common ground in our relationship.” He smiles sadly, rubbing circles on Dean’s shoulder with his thumb. “And I have tried so very hard to give Dean what he wants, and needs.”

Dean shakes his head. “I couldn’t keep hurting him, every time I needed to get off. Hand jobs and one-on-one sessions in the shower only get you so far, before it starts affects everything else.”

“And I refuse to lose Dean because this difference,” Castiel says firmly. “Which is why—why we agreed to invite someone else into our relationship.”

Understanding dawns on Gabriel like a weight lifting off his chest. His gaze lingers on Dean, who deliberately is not looking in his direction. He won’t be having sex with two dudes, just one. All-American dude. His heart thrums in his chest, because this is just plain awkward.

“So, um, I’m gonna screw your, erm, fiancé,” Gabriel says as he looks pointedly at Castiel. “And you’re okay with that?”

“I will be there, too. I just won’t be doing any of the ‘screwing’.”

Oh, plot twist. “So you’re gonna just watch?”

Castiel cocks one brow. “I will decide my level of participation once we begin. What I need to know, Gabriel, is whether or not you are willing to be my conduit?” He drags his hand down Dean’s bicep, gaze falling. “Give him what I cannot?”

“I mean. Yeah?” Gabriel bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m not really in the position to say no.”

“Of course you are, man,” Dean says suddenly. “This isn’t some dubcon porno. If it’s the money, don’t worry about that. If there’s a line… don’t let me cross it, Gabriel. I don’t want to be that kind of guy.”

Gabriel snorts. “So, huh. Should I pick out my safe word now?”

“It would be wise,” Castiel answers seriously, and Dean laughs loud, elbowing him.

“You guys are a riot.” Gabriel swallows hard. There really isn’t a downside to this, considering what he signed up for. These dudes are pretty cool, and the kinkiest thing might be the voyeurism involved but Gabriel has to admit that even turns him on. “But yeah. I’m cool with it, whatever.”

“Are you flexible?” Castiel asks.

“Mhm, I can lick my elbow. Oh, and my pediatrician told me I was double jointed which would explain how one time I was able to lick my—”

“He means your schedule, dumbass,” Dean grunts.

“Oh,” Gabriel mutters. “I’m good any weekday after five, and completely free on the weekends.”

“Could you start next Tuesday then? I would like to do Tuesdays, Fridays, and then you can stay over Friday night and spend the day with us Saturday morning.”

“Heh, um, yes that sounds great. Sleepovers are awesome.”

Dean grins. “I make mean pancakes.”

Castiel nods enthusiastically. “He really does.”

 

* * *

 

Gabriel decides that Dean and Castiel are good people.

They aren’t serial killers or even unfriendly; they are two guys in love and are having a rough time. Gabriel respects what they have and kind of wants to give them a round of applause for actually doing something to mend the bridge. Yeah, so Gabriel might be that big third-wheel style bridge. Still. Most people would just give up on each other after years of not being able to find common ground. These dudes are going to an extreme to stay together.

In the days following the dinner, Gabriel can’t get the situation out of his head. He has Sunday off from working at the patisserie, which he spends reacquainting himself with his camera.

If we wanna make it, we gotta keep busy. Work with your hands. Michael was always the profound one. He kept his hands busy alright, down on his knees before an altar to a father more absent than their own. Luke, the middle Shurley brother, heeded that advice in other ways, such as indulging in an endless string of women who wanted nothing but his hands.

Gabriel doesn’t know how or when he adapted this hobby, but he can’t remember a day when he wasn’t taking pictures. Sometimes it was grounding to capture the stunning moment when a drop of water refracts the day’s sun, to forever have the printed image of a sunset or an eclipse. More than anything, Gabriel likes to photograph people. On the balcony of his apartment, fives stories above the street, it isn’t very hard to photograph the computers.

Admittedly, Gabe’s nearly positive that it’s stolen. It’s a Nikon camera with three different types of lenses, all designed to capture efficiently at different distances. The dots below, behind the lens, become people. Humans going about their daily lives. Gabriel isn’t exactly a people person, so taking pictures of the world and the people in them makes him feel more connected. And maybe if he can connect, he can get out of his rut.

It’s like there was a path carved out for him from the start. He stayed within the lines, dared not cross any boundaries, and then the moment he did the freaking apocalypse rained on his life. It’s not like he had a choice.

But then again, life isn’t about choices. It’s about what you have to do. And Gabriel had to step away from that path, because he saw the end. He saw his end.

If that were really true, if he could simply burn every bridge from his past to his present, he wouldn’t be here. After all, he needs the money not for himself, but for his niece. Anna’s her name, but he’s never met the little munchkin. She’s Luke’s kid, and the last he heard she had some really bad spinal disease that’s really fucked her over. The last time he heard from Michael, that’s all he could hear. Pray for her, Gabriel. Prayer is the most we can do. And you know what Gabriel said to him? Fuck you; fuck your narrow-minded way of thinking. What’ll really save that little girl who shares his DNA are fucking doctors. There’s no god waiting in the wings to save her.

In lieu of focusing on the past, Gabriel obsesses over the present. If things go well with Dean and Castiel, then maybe he can work his entire month with them. Six thousand dollars, one month. It’s quickly becoming his mantra.

Couples far below the balcony hold hands. They’re nice pictures. He thinks of them, thinks of his clients, and then things of how lonely he has been. Part of him really wants to keep the whole escort-service thing professional, but he is becoming more and more concerned that sex will complicate everything. Contrary to popular belief, Gabriel isn’t a manslut. He is just perpetually lonely. And given that he hasn’t had any tail for upward of nine months, he’s seriously starting to wonder if Tuesday will mean opening the floodgates.

He really just wants to be sex, nothing more. He doesn’t want to be a wreck the first time. Sick as it sounds, he doesn’t want to be rejected by anyone, sent back to Rogue with a warning label that reads ‘caution: weepy fuck toy’.

But, maybe not. Because Gabriel’s a good judge of character. And Castiel and Dean? They’re good.

Soon Gabriel realizes that he isn’t focused on taking pictures at all. He pulls away and flicks through the saved photos, deciding that they’re all shit and deletes them. Photography has always been a mind-clearing practice, but maybe it’s time he pulled out the old dusty sneakers. Running was once a sure-fire way to clear his mind.

 

* * *

 

Gabriel returns to his apartment that evening exhausted and sore. Pain twitches in his throbbing muscles, especially his hamstrings that he has failed to stretch properly for months. He used to be very much into the whole fitness thing. He did Pilates (at first for the babes, later because he was starting to look like a babe) and ran daily, but when Luke went to jail—yeah, it became harder to concentrate on anything except not following his example.

As he pants, lurched over and clutching his knees once he’s in the cool lobby of his apartment building, he lets himself think of his brothers. He doesn’t do that often, and he tells himself that’s a good thing, but the loneliness eating at him tells him it’s pretty damn selfish. He can’t look Michael in the eye because he knows Michael turned their brother in. He can’t ever visit Luke—not after what he did to their father.

Not that Charles freaking Shurely didn’t have it coming, but still. Sons don’t kill their fathers. It’s shameful, wrong, and sickening. Even after a shitty childhood and eighteen years with a shitty dad, Luke offing Chuck will never sit right with Gabe.

His phone chirps in the pocket of his gym shorts, shocking him out of his reverie. Gabriel palms his sweaty hands on the front of his t-shirt and reaches for it, squinting at the dull light on the screen.

It’s a text message. The phone number isn’t in his contacts, and Gabriel doesn’t recognize it. When he opens the message, his stomach lurches.

 **Unknown Number:** hey gabriel, its dean from saturday… got ur number from becky. wanted to know if you drink beer or not

Gabriel blinks, suddenly and inappropriately dry.

 **Gabriel:** yeah I do. Bud lite, mostly. tryin to watch the carbs

Despite himself, Gabriel chuckles and pinches his stomach. He really has gotten pretty flabby, and a diet of lite beer won’t do anything. The more he thinks about it, the more Gabriel wonders if Castiel’s a wine sort of guy. Do they argue about what kind of alcohol to buy on date night? Can Dean whisper sweet words into Castiel’s ear and convince him to drink a little bit of bitter beer, maybe straight from Dean’s mouth—

Holy shit, Gabriel sputters to mute his fucked-up mind and shoves the phone deep in his pocket. It chirps again, but Gabriel doesn’t let himself read it until he’s upstairs, showered and squeaky clean.

 **Unknown Number:** thanks man.. see you tuesday

Gabriel sets his phone on the nightstand and finishes toweling the water out of his hair, breathing shakily as hopes—no, prays—that he will not be chicken shit on Tuesday. That he’ll be able to do his goddamn job. That he won’t be—Gabriel.

The last thing Gabriel does before turning off his phone is save Dean’s number into his contacts. The last thought that drifts through his mind before falling asleep is that he doesn’t know Dean’s last name, or Castiel’s for that matter.

 

* * *

 

Tuesday comes, and Gabriel’s mood is considerably tame despite the knowledge that he was going to be officially ‘escorting’ tonight. His six-hour shift at the patisserie flies by, cleaning and cooking only interrupted by interludes of Sam Winchester bitch facing over Gabriel’s innuendos. And man, he loves to slowly lick a cream-covered plate clean just to get a rise out of the kid. He’s so inappropriately appropriate for a teenage kid. He wonders if he was raised by a billy goat or something.

Nonetheless, Sam is pleasant company. And he’s not really the judgmental type, Gabriel thinks. They just like to give each other a really hard time.

Sam leaves around five for an evening class, which leaves Gabriel by himself to manage the counter and clean up after the customers. As he cleans out the display cabinet, which is filled with visually appealing cookies and cake, he notes that there is an apple pie that will probably be going bad soon. Maybe...maybe he can take it over to Dean and Castiel’s tonight? A peace offering? Something to lay at their kinky altar? Thinking the worst thing that could happen is neither of them liking pie (and who in their right mind wouldn’t indulge in a freaking piece of good old American apple pie?), he packs up the pie in a to-go box.

Just around six, Gabe’s relief comes and he’s free to go home. The patisserie is just around the corner from his apartment—a short walk—so he figures he has about half an hour to shave properly and take a quick shower just to...clean the pipes. The very much-neglected pipes.

The whole time he tries not to think of what the night has in store. It’s better if he has no expectations. There’s no amount of obsessing and wondering that will make tonight any easier on his ego or pride.

Six thousand dollars.

The drive to that same gated community seems shorter, maybe because the cloudy sky has already begun to blot out the evening sun, making it seem later than it is. A chill goes up his spine and dances on his fingertips when he opens the car door and slips out, making the walk up the manicured sidewalk with a box of apple pie pressed to his hip like a safety blanket.

Castiel is the one who answers the door first, astoundingly blue eyes lighting up upon seeing Gabriel at their doorstep. Slightly stunned by the almost admiring gaze, Gabriel shoves out his arms, offering the box in his hands like it was on fire and he needed to get rid of it.

“Brought you guys some pie,” he says quickly. “It’s apple. And really good.”

An amused smirk pulls at one corner of Castiel’s mouth as he accepts the box. “Oh, Gabriel. If this becomes a regular gift, Dean may want to marry you instead of me.”

Gabriel swallows, only partially faking his laugh. “Heh, he likes pie?”

“‘Like’ is an improper descriptor of Dean’s feelings for pie,” Castiel muses as he leads Gabriel through the door (Gabriel shuts it behind him, feeling awkward as he does so; should closing doors really be so nerve-racking?) and into the kitchen. He sets the box down on the countertop, opens it, and smiles brightly. “I am certain Dean worships pie when I’m not around.”

“Did someone say pie?” Dean jogs into the kitchen, smile casual as he regards Gabriel and then—then amazed when he spots the open box of pie laying on the counter. “Gabe, you didn’t.”

Gabriel shrugs. “You brought the beer, I brought the pie. Fair enough in my book.”

“Bud Lite, correct?” asks Castiel as he saunters toward the refrigerator and opens it. He pulls out three bottles and then retrieves an opener from a drawer. So maybe Castiel doesn’t need convincing to have a beer, as prim and proper as he seems. Well, he doesn’t look anything like he did the last Saturday. His hair is a bit messier, his clothes more casual (not close to Dean’s ripped jeans and Metallica shirt) and he just looks more laid back as he takes a long pull of beer. Gabriel follows his lead, relishing in the placebo effect induced feeling of relaxation upon the first sip.

Both hands threat around the bottle as he looks between Dean and Castiel. “So, um. Should we get the party started?”

It’s Dean who immediately reddens and hauls the beer to his lips, leaving Castiel licking his lips before answering. “We ought to. I do have to get up early in the morning…” Castiel trails off, setting his beer on the countertop. His eyes linger on the bottle as he twists the neck.

“Couldn’t get out of the board meeting?” Dean murmurs, a note of disappointment hanging in the air.

“I could not.”

“You some big and mighty CEO?” Gabriel says and chuckles.

Castiel tilts his head, neither frowning nor laughing. “I am, in fact.”

“Oh,” Gabriel mutters. “Well, that explains the sick digs.”

“Sick digs?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Is this 1990?”

Gabriel twitches his nose as he glares. “Hey, macho man. Shove it up your ass.”

Dean throws up his free hand in surrender and then walks across the kitchen, opening a cabinet where the trashcan must be stored. He throws away his very much empty beer bottle. “Okay, I want to get this over with.”

“Dean…” Castiel says, reaching an arm to touch Dean’s shoulder in that way he always does. Dean slinks away from the touch and just throws a, “c’mon,” over his shoulder.

And here is where the awkwardness begins. Gabriel is severely close to becoming a third wheel on this arrangement, and all these pre-marital problems? He’s the conduit for it. He’s had threesomes before, but not with people so wholeheartedly committed to each other. And this really doesn’t even qualify as a threesome. From what he understands, Dean’s the one who will be sexing him up. And there seems to be some emotions connotations too that Gabriel wishes he could ignore... sex is an emotional thing. That’s why he never fucks the same person twice (except Kali, but they only have one-night stands every couple years, so it doesn’t count). And when he thinks of it like that, Gabriel thinks that he must have some severe intimacy issues. Big surprise.

It takes a few seconds to realize that Dean’s walking from the kitchen (more like stomping, but that may be just because he has these ridiculously clunky combat boots on). Gabriel’s body jerks instinctively to follow, growing more aware of his movement when Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s not the way he touches Dean; his fingers don’t wrap, just lay. His gaze is weary, but he gives Gabriel an encouraging smile that doesn’t really help Gabe’s nerves at all.

Walking in front of Castiel, and behind Dean, Gabriel observes the simplistic decor. Modern paintings that look more like skid marks than art, a stark red rug against dark hardwood. He wonders who decorated the house. At first instinct, he’d guess it was Castiel, but he seems to underestimate Dean’s gayness at every turn, so he tucks the question away for later. When they aren’t about to have sex.

A chill runs up his spine at the thought, yet his libido feels like it’s been injected with the get-it-up juice that makes takes him to floppy pancake to brick levels of hardness. Or, at least he’s getting there. An eye full of Dean’s perky ass as they go up the stairs helps in that department.

Dean opens the first door on the left at the top of the stairs, flips on the light, and saunters the rest of the way in while Gabriel and Castiel follow suit. The room is simple, void of any decoration like the rest of the house. The only indicator that it’s a bedroom is a vast dresser on the opposite end of an equally huge king-sized bed… on which there is an array of lube bottles and condoms laid out.

Gabriel swallows, and then begins to shed his clothes. In anticipation, he wore virtually no layers. Just a gray Henley and blue jeans. He even forgoes socks, because socks just are sexy on or off. He has his shirt halfway off when Dean says, “Stop,” in an husky authoritative voice that does not make Gabriel even harder. Nope. So he does stop, lets the hem of his shirt fall back down—not all the way, it catches on his stomach so that there is still a small strip of skin (which, ha, includes his mighty fine hipbones) visible.

“What?” he finds himself asking in response. Part of him wants to start so this can end. The other part wants to get it on with Dean, like, yesterday. He’s a pretty hot guy, overtly masculine in some ways and fucking pretty in others. Like that mouth. Dean licking his lower lips as those Rapunzel green eyes fall to Gabe’s waist, his hips. There is hunger in his eyes.

“I,” Dean starts, eyes flickering up, but not to Gabriel’s eyes. Castiel stands just behind Gabriel’s shoulder, a stride away, and that is where Dean looks. “Cas?” His voice wanes, lost and...Maybe seeking approval? This whole threesome thing is new to them—obviously—and Dean doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries. Shouldn’t Gabriel know these boundaries? Well, maybe he should just play submissive. Wait for Dean to make the moves, see where that goes. He doesn’t seem like the bending-over type anyway.

Dean blinks hard, almost shocked, just before Gabriel feels it. Castiel is right behind him, chest pressed against his back, hands settling on his shoulders firmly. His body is simultaneously hot and cold, mostly due to the unexpected and very pleasant proximity of a very attractive dude, when Castiel breathes against his ear. “You’re going to make my boy feel amazing, Gabriel,” he whispers. “And you’ll love it when he fucks you, I promise.” He pulls away, the absence of touch making shudder. Dean is practically drooling as he watches (oh, and Gabriel does too) Castiel saunter across the room to the head of the bed. He points to the mattress and looks at Gabriel. “Lay down.”

Like he can say no to that—hell no. Hot dude tells you to lay down, you do it like your life depends on it. The only thing wrong about the situation is there are too many clothes, especially on Dean. He didn’t have the forethought like Gabriel to ditch the layers.

He lays in the center of the bed, shoulders propped up on a massive pile of throw pillows so he can see Dean at the other end. Castiel is at his side, eyes moving between the both of them. They are so blue, even in the dim lighting of the bedroom. They are also hauntingly indifferent—well, that shouldn’t be surprising. Gabriel doesn’t even really know anything about asexuals; admittedly, he assumed that they never get intimate or anything, but that’s obviously not the case. He touches Dean like his satin and velvet wrapped into one man. And the way they look at each other, even now when Dean’s about to fuck him, is more intimate than some sexual encounters Gabriel’s had in the past.

“Dean, I want you to undress him, but don’t touch him,” Castiel says simply, placing his hands upon his hips. “Not until I say so.”

The mattress gives in as Dean climbs on to it, crawling on his hands and knees to the foot of the bed. Gabriel meets his eyes, and they both share an incredibly terrified gaze. Gabriel nods as Dean pulls himself on top of his legs. He is almost straddling Gabriel, in a way that their groins can’t rub together. Because Cas said Gabriel can’t be touched—which is so goddamn cruel.

Dean has his jeans unbuttoned, the zipper pulled down, but Gabriel has to lift his lips to shimmy out of them. Dean keeps licking his lips, which, Gabriel realizes, are full and feminine and glistening with saliva. Totally kissable. But he’s not sure if kissing is allowed in this arrangement. Gabriel nearly snorts to himself, wondering when he became Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

“What’s so funny?” Dean says, voice stuck on that fucking husky setting that goes straight to Gabriel’s dick.

Gabriel shakes his head, face heating as his filter fails to restrain his answer, “Just thinking about how much I want to kiss you right now.”

Before he even gets the chance to laugh it off, Dean seizes Gabriel’s face between his hands and latches their lips together. Kissing is instinct for Gabriel, but he finds himself stunned into paralysis for the first few seconds before returning the kiss in earnest. Dean tastes like beer and maybe whisky, but it’s hard to focus on flavors when his tongue is down Gabriel’s throat.

Gabriel lets out a breathy moan as his hands latch to Dean’s hips, trying to pull the man closer. As soon as he does, a different hand is combing its way through Gabriel’s hair smoothly.

“Stop, Dean,” Castiel says quietly. “You can resume once he’s stripped.”

Immediately their lips part with a resounding ‘pop’, and a pleading whimper on Gabriel’s part. Pathetic, but that’s probably the best goddamn kiss he’s ever had with a man.

Dean is surprisingly obedient, face flushed and filled with want, but lips pressed tight in concentration as he pushes up Gabriel’s shirt. He raises his hands over his head to assist Dean in that, teasingly rolling his hips in an effort to rile him up some more. Castiel’s fingers are still in his hair, lingering at the roots, and they squeeze when Gabriel does this. “Don’t taunt him,” he all but snaps, leaning down to Gabriel’s ear. “This is hard for him, in more ways than one.”

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, fingers starting to fumble to get Gabriel completely out of his jeans, and then makes fast work of his cotton boxers. Gabriel hisses into the pregnant silence when his cock bobs free, brushing Dean’s unwitting fingers and sending a spark of arousal straight to Gabe’s mind, making him rock his hips like he was born to. “Don’t,” he says, pressing his fingers deep into Gabriel’s thighs and pushing him into the bed. “Don’t move.” His eyes flicker up to Castiel’s, like he’s seeking confirmation.

Realization strikes Gabriel as he watches their eyes connect like two magnets, always finding each other. “Oh shit,” he says aloud, capturing both of their gazes. “So Castiel’s gonna tell you just how to fuck me, huh?” he says to Dean with a smirk. “And Cas, you dog. You’re gonna get off on it?”

“That is the plan.” Castiel’s gaze hardens. “I suggest the next words that pass through your lips are, ‘please, Castiel, let Dean fuck me.’ That is, if you would like to get off. Which based on this.” Castiel stretches his lithe fingers to touch Gabriel’s cock, drawing his forefinger up the long vein all the way to the tip. “You certainly do.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel agrees, nodding violently as Castiel hooks his finger and thumb around the tip and squeeze, a hiss coming between his lips as Dean holds him down. “Fuck.”

“Is that superfluous cursing or a request?” Castiel asks.

“Please,” Gabriel tries, finding Dean’s eyes. “Please, fuck me.”

“No,” Castiel says impatiently, squeezing him harder. “Dean has handed himself over to me, and only I will grant you the release you want so badly.”

“O-okay,” Gabriel huffs, blinking away a bead of sweat that somehow gathered in the corner of his eye, from running down his brow. Dean’s fingers thrum against his hips, and somehow that’s an indicator that he’s just as impatient to get the party started. He’s never actually been submissive in bed. Never had the inclination, nor has he ever been with a guy or gal that was a full-out Dom.

Times are changing in more ways than one.

As an escort, he is selling his time and with it Dean and Castiel can do what they please. So if they want him to lay back and beg for it, well, he doesn’t really get to say no. Even though they told him he could say no, he doesn’t want to. He is way too turned on to back off because it’s new.

Gabriel just stops. He stops fighting against this.

“Cas,” he breathes, feeling lighter when he lets the nickname Dean always uses. “Please, let him do me. I need it.” He drags his eyes across Dean. “Need you.”

The moment swells when Dean finally meets Castiel’s eyes, and he nods for Dean to continue. Gabriel could have screamed when Dean reached behind him to grab a bottle of lube and squirted a generous amount on his fingertips and weaves one hand between his legs to his entrance, while the other hand begins to pump him tip to base.

Gabriel lays back, takes it all—Dean’s fingers, his cock eventually when he was opened up wide. The occasional hand in his hair, Castiel’s hand, makes him surprisingly not uneasy. He whispers praises to both of them, telling Dean how well he’s treating Gabriel, informing Gabriel that his hole is perfect for Dean’s cock. Gabe only finds himself capable of replying with bitten moans and unraveling whimpers as Dean is quickly able to find his prostate, and he plunges against it with an unrivaled ruthlessness.

But Castiel tells them not to come. For minutes, maybe even hours, Dean rocks in and out of him, a staggered an uneven pace as he tries not to come. Gabriel is no better, fingers knotted in the disheveled sheets below them as Castiel pets his cheek, tells him how good and ready Gabe is, but that he is not ready.

The guy is still fully fucking dressed, just watching and whispering and talking like none of this affects him at all. Dean may be on the verge of tears, for all Gabriel knows, because his eyes are tight and lips locked shut as he groans.

When neither of them expect it, Castiel utters a simple, “Come,” and Gabriel’s body knows what that means before he does, because his entire body sparks like fireworks and he raises his hips to meet Dean’s last thrust before he comes as well. White drizzles from Dean’s stomach back onto Gabriel’s thighs, which Dean smears as he grips those thighs even tighter as he rides out his high with meaningful, deep thrusts.

Dean pulls out, spent and soaked in sweat. Castiel is smiling, petting Dean’s face as he rolls onto the bed next to Gabriel. Not right next to him, though. It’s like Gabriel is a toy, spent and used and ready to be put away. But he’s so high on his orgasm, blissed the fuck out, that he can’t find the energy to care. He does find a little envy bubbling beneath his skin when Castiel crawls into the bed, wraps his clothed arms around a very naked Dean and just holds him. Gabriel gropes above his head, finding a throw pillow to wrap his arms around. He rolls onto his side, away from them so he doesn’t feel that unwarranted pang of jealousy. He holds the pillow; hopes that no one will be mad if a little sweat and come soak into the material.

He doesn’t expect to feel lips press against the top of his spine. Shivering, Gabriel looks over his shoulder, seeing Dean’s face. He offers Gabe a sheepish smirk, the kind one expects after their first time having sex. Beside Dean lay Castiel, whose arm stretches across Dean’s body to lay on Gabriel’s hip. A hand on his hip, and Dean’s arm weaving around Gabriel’s abdomen, warmth drips in his chest like drizzle of rain in summer.

Blinking, Gabriel lays his head back down, basking in the warmth of not one man, but two, giving him this almost dutiful affection.

The last thought that runs through his mind before exhaustion takes him is how real this feels, and how unfortunate that it isn’t.

 

* * *

 

He wakes suddenly to a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Gabriel gasps, unaware of his surroundings and honestly a bit terrified to see a pair of blue eyes staring at him in the darkness.

“It’s just me, Castiel,” says a voice quietly, soothing the blossoming fear in the pit of his stomach. Oh, right. The previous night—or is it still night? morning?—comes rushing back to him. Sweat and grunting, stretching—yeah, that part is evident based on the soreness of his backside. He groans, pulling himself so that he’s sitting up against the headboard, pulling a twisted sheet across his legs to hide what may be morning wood.

“What time is it?” he asks Castiel, blinking and rubbing his eyes.

“It’s about one in the morning. I have to leave, and I already called the agency to come and pick you up.” Castiel flips on the wall lamp just next to the bed, making Gabriel wince at the light flooding the room. They’re alone, he notices immediately.

“Where’s Dean-o?”

Castiel presses his lips together. “He...He went to bed. Our bed. This is the guestroom.”

“Ah,” Gabriel murmurs tiredly, like he could have expected different. He’s being ushered out of the door at the butt crack of dawn, still covered in come—his own, he’s sure—and sweat caking hair to his face. “Well, can you direct me to your guest bathroom. I don’t want to smell like sex in the company car, you know.”

“Of course,” Castiel says, all business. “It’s the door directly across the hall. There are towels, soap, and a change of clothes for you laying on the vanity.”

Gabriel looks at him, and nods slightly. “Thanks.”

Instead of a plain old ‘you’re welcome’, Castiel heaves a sigh that is on the verge of tired compared to every word that’s come out of his mouth in the past five minutes. He lays a hand on Gabriel’s covered leg, right above his knee, and squeezes. “Gabriel, I cannot imagine what this is like—for you. But please know that I am so grateful. Dean enjoyed himself, and I—I did as well, to my own surprise. I feel like, outside our time in this room, the three of us could be great friends.” He smiles, patting Gabriel a little.

Gabriel is very doubtful, but doesn’t want to crush the guy’s happiness. “Yeah, maybe,” he attempts.

Slowly, Castiel begins to lean in close to him, and the air becomes so thin that Gabriel can’t even gasp when their lips connect. Castiel’s fingertips cautiously touch his cheek, slowly curling around his jaw and tipping their foreheads together. But the kiss is barely malleable. It’s forced.

“You don’t have to kiss me,” Gabriel mumbles as he pulls away. “I don’t expect anything from you, Cas.”

“I wanted to try,” Castiel says quietly, almost sheepish. He coughs into a closed fist and stands up. “I will let you to it. I...I will see you Friday evening, same time?”

Gabriel smiles a little at how hopeful the guy sounds. “Sure thing.” And he winks. “Good luck at your meeting, or whatever.”

Castiel seems shocked that Gabe remembers that brief conversation the night before. “Oh. Thank you.” And he takes the awkward fumble for a response as his cue to leave.

Gabriel hurries to the shower. It’s is one of those huge kinds you see at IKEA for a million bucks or something, jets coming from the sides and a pad containing fucking sauna settings. Well, that’s something that he can take advantage of next time.

Next time. This is going to happen again, he thinks numbly as water hits the top of his head, drips down his shoulders and meets the secondary pray hitting his back. He tries to talk himself out of the dirtiness that he feels. It’s not sweat or come deep either. It’s in his pores, embedded beneath his skin. He can’t wash it away, no matter how hard he scrubs at his skin.

 

* * *

 

Once Gabriel’s in his bed, he sleeps. For real, not in that post-coital sleep where everything is tingly and throbbing and nice. His dreams are warped memories of the night before, except instead of running his fingers through Gabriel’s hair, Castiel is shoving hundred dollar bills in his mouth like a gag while Dean pounds into him.

He wakes up to the sound of his alarm clock, which he begrudgingly silences it with a moan. Squinting at the bright red digital numbers, the clock reads six-thirty. So he ended up getting right around four hours of sleep, which is completely unacceptable. He decides no more sleepovers in the slightest on a weekday.

Forcing himself to think about anything but last night, Gabriel pushes himself off the bed and pads across the bedroom to pick out a clean pair of boxers (as sick as his dream was, it did leave him with a wet stain on the front of his shorts) and a t-shirt from his dresser. Once he’s got his underclothes on he goes to the kitchen, sets a pot of coffee, playing out his normal morning routine.

 

* * *

 

Business at the patisserie is so goddamn slow that Gabriel finds himself in the back chitchatting with the cook—an Italian immigrant who calls himself Cherub—while he makes pies. Even though he isn’t a cook, he still makes the best goddamn pies. And apparently Dean likes them so…

No, he isn’t going to promote himself to whore-slash-private-chef for that dude. But then Michael’s words bleed into his thoughts, we gotta keep busy. Work with your Hands. The dough in his fingers soothes his thoughts, his worries. Eases the guilt pressing down on his shoulders.

The ringing over the bell on the front door prompts Gabriel to stick his out onto the floor, making sure it wasn’t a customer. And, nope, mister college kid Sam is sauntering, a suddenly disappointed expressing taking over his face.

Gabriel smirks, wringing his fingers with a dishtowel to get the dough off as he walks up to the counter. Sam is looking through the display, looking at the fresh batch of pastries Gabriel put in this morning.

“Did someone buy that apple pie that was in here?”

“I took it,” Gabriel says slowly. “It was about to go bad. Why, did you want it?”

“I’m going to see my brother tonight, thought about grabbing it before I went. He like apple pie best.”

The dude is full grown and the size of Bigfoot, practically, but his goddamn eyes are so mopey. Like a kicked puppy. Gabriel can’t deny that he has a soft spot for big sad eyes on a cute face, attached to a smoking (but sadly far too young) hot body. He sighs, rolling his neck dramatically before he settles his gaze on Sam. “Ugh, fine, you don’t have to grovel. I was gonna make a rhubarb pie, poor Cherub loves rhubarb, but I can easily switch to apple filling.”

“Really?” Sam perks up, biting back a full out Sam-style freak-out in fear that Gabriel is just screwing with him.

“Yeah, Sasquatch. I know all too well the importance of keeping big brothers happy,” he mutters, thinking of Michael, wishing that he didn’t think of Luke though. Luke loved pie, and it kind of makes Gabriel regret that they probably don’t serve pie to inmates.

Gabriel really doesn’t expect Sam to reach across the counter and hug him. “Thanks dude, I owe you. It’s gonna make his night.”

“Well, I am accepting tips,” Gabriel murmurs into Sam’s shoulder, lips scrunched and muffled awkwardly as he pats Sam on the back. The hug breaks and Sam smile stretches from ear to ear. The lightness and humor is welcomed, and even though it’s still Gabriel’s sole duty to be a sort-of-kind-of asshole co-worker, he realizes that he really does like Sam. He’s a good kid. He may even see a little of himself in the moppy haired-kid with dreams higher than the clouds. The only difference is that Sam has to duck his head when going into the back kitchen.

* * *

 

The next couple days pass with staunch normality. Wednesday evening, Gabriel orders pizza and flirts shamelessly with the hearty young pizza boy. He tries not to feel like the old timer he’s quickly becoming as he settles in front of the TV in his bathrobe and knee socks, watching Golden Girls reruns before he falls asleep with an empty pizza box on his lap.

The following morning he Gabriel saunters into the shop, tired and swollen with pizza and the taste of greasy cheese lingers on his tongue no matter how much he brushes his teeth. Cherub, being the resourceful slightly overweight guy he is, offers Gabe a cherry-flavored sucker. For the better of an hour, it hangs from his lips. Not his favorite flavor, but it does keep the greasy-taste at bay.

Sam comes in for the morning shift, book bag in hand. Oh right, Thursdays are when he has his evening classes, so the kid’ll probably be going straight from work to class. Close to the end of Sam’s shift, Gabriel subtly makes him a sandwich and packs it in a cake box for him to take for dinner.

“You big softie,” Sam says, smiling as he slaps Gabriel on the shoulder. He smirks, nodding sheepishly.

“Sasquatch is an endangered species. I’m helping, just ask Al Gore.”

Even when Sam’s gone, Gabriel’s left with a soft glow around him. That was probably his good deed of the decade, lucky kid, but it actually felt kind of nice to do something for someone whose name isn’t Gabriel. It actually made him feel less like shit, less like property and more like a goddamn human.

Even before he signed on to be an escort for a month, that worthlessness was there. He kind of realizes that now. And it seems like doing nice things rectifies that hint of guilt and self-loathing that’s lingered in his system since Luke went to prison. Not that he did anything to put his brother in that cell, but he didn’t help either. He refused to be a character witness, because even Gabriel knew perjury would get you a one-way ticket to Shit Town. Because Luke is a piece of shit human. Gabriel shouldn’t still love him. But he does, and that’s what makes him feel worse of all.

That night, Gabriel gets drunk off his ass on a bottle of Vodka that was shoved in the back of his pantry. It wasn’t as potent, because it was older than dirt, but it knocked him right out.

And massive hangovers do not help in the slightest when it comes to waking up early in the morning. In fact, Gabriel is about half an hour late for his shift, after forgoing taking a morning shower like he intended. He immediately regrets getting drunk and not tending to his bodily hygiene because it’s Friday.

His ass freaking clenches at the reminder, because that means sex. More sex than he’s mentally prepared for. And his body is totally not ready for the kinky shit that may or may not be going down tonight. The stress of it leaves Gabriel tense the entire day. Sam doesn’t work Fridays, so he finds himself taking out his stress on dough as he kneads it, on plates as he’s washing them. Cherub may rip him a new one for breaking his favorite little teapot.

It’s a welcome relief when Gabriel finally clocks out at four, which then leaves him plenty of time to attend to the upkeep of his body. He trims his body hair in the right places (never too short, just enough to look neat) and makes sure his face is completely clean. He even goes a step further and trims the hair around his ears, because he thinks his ears are a particularly nice feature to his ultimate physique.

Really, keeping his body clean is a way of micromanaging the stress. He has an idea of what could happen tonight, so Gabriel is not flying into the dark much like he did on Tuesday. All in all, he had a really good night with Dean and Castiel. However, the sexual release—as he feared—was accompanied by unwanted and, frankly, unwarranted emotions. They’re clients. They don’t care about him outside his usefulness in the sex department. He should do better to remember that while not being an asshole to him. Which may prove to be very difficult. He’s a pretty straightforward guy.

The escort agency driver arrives just as scheduled, and the drive is strikingly fast this time. He wants it to be slow, like last time. Gabriel wants to savor the dignity he has left.

Yet, before he knows it he is knocking at their door just as the sun is setting over the line of trees behind him. Castiel answers the door, his smile almost redeeming Gabriel from his sour mood. “Hello, Gabriel.” He invites him in with a wide wave of his arm.

“Hey,” he tries, throat suddenly dry. He takes a breath and smells something warm and inviting, like cornbread muffins and beef stew. It ebbs against his senses, making Gabriel salivate. “Damn, what’s for dinner?”

“Dean wanted to cook tonight,” Castiel says with a shrug of his shoulder. They’re walking into the kitchen, where Dean stands over the stove, not even noticing their arrival “He would not let me interfere, so I do not know.”

“Heh, well it smells awesome,” Gabriel announces, loud enough to get Dean’s attention. He looks over his shoulder with a wry smirk.

“Hey Gabe. Dinner’s almost done. How about you all just go wait in the dining room and I’ll bring it?”

They both oblige his request and sit at the dining room table. It’s set the same way the last time they sat down; two place mats on one side, one on the other. This time it isn’t the equivalent of an interview, though. Just three guys eating good grub.

Gabriel’s the kind of guy who can’t really stand the silence easily, not when he’s sitting across from another person. Really, he’ll talk to anyone—anyone with ears. “So, what kind of work do you do, Castiel?” he asks plainly.

“I am head of a children’s toy company,” he answers.

“What’s that like?”

“Thankless,” Castiel sighs, eyes fluttering shut as he presses his lips together. “I am shown little respect.”

Just then, Dean comes into the dining room, his arms lined with plates and mitts on his hands. Gabriel’s mouth opens agape, because he only sees that kind of plate-carrying skill at the Mexican restaurant. Fluidly, Dean passes off plates to Castiel and then Gabriel.

None of them say a word until, five minutes or so into the meal, Gabriel does what he does best: opens his mouth. “You guys make the best home cooked meals I’ve ever had. Well, I don’t think I ever had one until I met you.” Gabriel’s chewing slows as he realizes how pathetic that sounded. He drops his gaze to his plate.

“Dean is the better cook out of the two of us,” Castiel says fondly, easing into the awkward silence with a soft voice. “His aunt taught him, and she was a culinary genius, I’m afraid. I draw from the small things Dean has taught me and Food Network...he has pure talent.”

“Shucks, Cas, you’re gonna make me blush,” Dean says, like he already isn’t. “Um, but Gabe? I’m glad you’re here.”

Gabriel peers up, gaze narrowed slightly, but he decides it best not to say a word. He spoons some beans into his mouth and pretends his tongue isn’t having an orgasm.

After dinner, Castiel grabs some beers for the three of them again, and Gabriel is half-ready to march up to the bedroom by himself and strip, lay on the bed, and wait for it. But he follows Dean and Cas, not upstairs, but into the living room. They have one of those huge black leather sectionals, centered in front of the biggest goddamn flat screen Gabriel’s seen outside Radio Shack.

“We gonna watch some movies?” Gabriel murmurs past the lip of his bottle. Some dudes like that; a little pre-show porn to get the hard-ons up and ready. He could be down with that.

Dean sets his beer down on the coffee table before going to a shelf adjacent to the TV, which is filled with hundreds of DVDs. He strums his fingers across their spines before turning to look over his shoulder. “Hell yeah. What are you in the mood for?”

“Do you like the Star Trek remakes?” Castiel pipes up quickly, nearly embarrassed. A little quieter he says, “I do like Chris Pine a great deal.”

“Hey.” Dean frowns. “There’s only room for one dreamy blue-eyed guy in this relationship, bud. But, um, yeah—Gabe? You up for some Star Trek?”

“I’ve actually only seen parts from the second movie…Into Darkness. This kid I work with has a man crush on that one guy...Benedict something-or-other. His voice.” Gabriel heaves a sigh. “Very sexy.”

Dean seems to find what he said amusing, but says nothing as he pops open a case. “Well, Star Trek it is. I can make some popcorn too?”

They both look at Gabriel, expecting an answer from him. He blinks before answering. “Yeah, I could have some—um. Guys.” He exhales breathily, gnawing on his lower lip. “Not that I’m complaining, but is this...tonight...are we doing the dirty or…?”

Dean comes and sits down beside Gabriel, their knees just a few inches from knocking together. Castiel, who is leaning against the back of the couch, watches them with wide, thoughtful eyes.

“No, not tonight,” Dean says after a less-than-brief silence. His features twist and turn, as he seeks the right words to convey whatever complex thoughts are running through his mind. “Thing is, Tuesday was...eye opening. I mean, before I got together with Cas, meaningless sex was so goddamn easy. It was always with women though, because I hadn’t realized that I didn’t quite swing that way...so, thing is, I can’t have sex with you again unless it means something. Not that I want you to marry me, that ain’t it. I just need—”

“He needs to feel loved,” Castiel assists, tilting his head with a smile. “And Dean’s desires for intimacy include, but are not limited to, movie night.”

It’s a weird concept; this is the farthest thing from typical in an arrangement such as Gabriel’s. He signed that month-long contract knowing that he would be an object of sex, to be used, expended like a living breathing dildo. Adler’s words murmur against his subconscious, we’re in the business of selling your time, and Gabriel feels a swell of worth in his chest.

Not only that, he isn’t going to argue when Dean sits beside Castiel, right up against his shoulder. It’s pretty nice, especially when he throws his right arm over Gabriel’s shoulder and just rests. Meanwhile, his left hand carries popcorn to his lips (oh, and what glorious lips they are) while Castiel pets his hair. The interaction between them is too complex for Gabriel to wrap his head around. But, unlike most things, it’s easy. Relationships, paid for or otherwise, haven’t felt this easy in...ever.

The movies enrapture Gabriel easily; the effects and the dreamy dudes in uniform and the action are all enough to keep him occupied. Halfway through the second movie, Dean lolls off into Gabriel’s shoulder, snoring lightly as his chin snuggles into the crook of Gabe’s shoulder. Upon realizing that Dean’d fell asleep, Castiel chuckles and leans into him, resting his own head on Dean’s shoulder.

Even Gabriel, who notoriously can’t go to sleep after an action-packed movie, feels drowsy. Maybe relaxed is a more accurate feeling, and it may have something to do with the fact Dean is pretty much cuddling him. It takes a whole lot of effort to swallow the girlish sound bubbling in his throat.

Castiel is the first one to move. He stretches his arms above his head and rolls his neck, a litany of crackles in Gabriel’s ears, and then turns off the TV. His eyes meet Gabriel’s briefly, and he somewhat resembles a lazy cat bathing under the sun in a mid-summer afternoon. His eyelids droop, but a smile hangs easily on his lips. A smile just for Gabriel; his heart begins to jump wildly in his chest at it.

“Are you ready for bed?” he asks Gabe quietly. “I think we could all use a nice sleep, and then we can decide what we’ll do tomorrow...afterwards.”

Sleeping sounds like a great idea, Gabriel thinks and nearly begins to say before a yawn breaks through his lips. And damn, it’s one of those yawns that lasts forever, stretches deep below his ribs and pulling a few emotionless tears from his eyes.

At this, Castiel chuckles and leans down to Dean’s ear. “Wake up, we must go to bed.”

Dean grumbles and buries his lips in the shoulder of Gabriel’s shirt. “No.”

“Don’t make me carry you, big guy,” says Gabriel, wondering if he actually could pick Dean up. For the sake of his lumbar health, he wants to avoid that if at all possible.

“You couldn’t.” Dean’s protest is more coherent and he lifts his head, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “Let’s go, bed. Now.”

After heading upstairs, they all perform their nightly routines; Gabriel brushes his teeth and changes into a pair of pajamas before retreating across the hallway into the guestroom—his room, he supposes, for the time that he is here. He climbs into the enormous bed, loneliness ebbing at the edges of his consciousness.

But. This bed is really comfortable. He really hasn’t any reason to complain.

* * *

 

Like many of Gabriel’s dreams as of late, the one he has while sleeping in the guest bed is—once again—bizarre. His dreams have always been vivid, so remembering their manifest content as he drifts into the awake/not-really-awake limb isn’t uncommon. In it, his limbs are bound and his eyes are blindfolded, but he’s also having a weird out-of-body-experience so he knows that Castiel looms over him, touches his cheek softly and then grabs it so hard that he yelps. And that is the point at which the dream ends, and he is cringing away from sudden blinding light.

Of all the ways to be woken up, light is the worst. Gabriel groans and rolls his face into the pillow, feeling a wet spot that’s probably from his drool. Great, drooling in the guest bed. He guesses saliva’s not the worst thing to ever touch these sheets. An arm hanging over his eyes, he peeks carefully so not to be blinded yet again.

“Rise and shine, the sun’s up,” comes Dean’s voice from above him. He stands next to the bed, and the light shining through the rather enormous window behind him frames his figure. Like an angel, Gabriel muses, and then feels himself throw up in his mouth. When did he become ninety-nine percent mush?

“The sun doesn’t dictate my sleeping habits,” Gabriel garbles into his arm, flopping his body onto the bed again. He’s determined to get just five more minutes of shut-eye.

Dean snorts. “Nah, man. But food does. Cas has got some mighty fine-smelling grub going in the kitchen. If you don’t get out of bed, I’ll eat it all.”

Gabriel drops his arm away, raising a brow—tired, but still spunky. “Don’t you need to watch your figure, pretty boy?”

“Me?” Dean huffs. He flexes his arms, not so subtly checking his flab index, Gabriel guesses. “I am fit, man.”

Instead of agreeing, Gabriel chuckles to himself and throws off his covers. Dean doesn’t particularly seem to appreciate the jabs at his body. But the dude should know his body is rocking. The kind of rocking that will probably get Gabe’s rocks off for the foreseeable future, even after this jig is up.

He and Dean go downstairs, and the aroma of sweet bread—fresh pancakes, perhaps—and scrambled eggs, actually pleasantly and fully awakes Gabriel. Castiel appears from behind the pantry door, dressed in black sweatpants that hang way too low on his hips and a plain white shirt. But his hair—it’s been mused before, but never this messy. Like maybe Dean and Cas had the roughest sex, ever. But Gabriel knows that’s not the case, otherwise he’d be out of the job.

“Mornin’, Cas,” Gabriel greets with a sheepish smirk, his eyes still lingering in all the wrong places.

Castiel notices his wandering eyes and merely smirks, licking his lips. “Good morning, Gabriel.” He returns to attend to the food cooking over the stove, while Dean presses his hand to Gabriel’s lower back, leading him. The touch makes him flinch, but then it becomes easy when he focuses on the warmth of Dean’s hand radiating through his shirt.

They end up in a less formal dining room—an eat-in kitchen, Gabe guesses is the right term. He doesn’t know. He never made it a priority to learn the difference between rooms. Where you eat—that’s the dining room. Where you dine. It’s logic.

Cas brings in certain plates one by one, like a four course meal at breakfast. He is really amazed how well these guys eat. Every meal he’s had thus far has been something out of an episode of Top Chef or something.

“Orange juice or milk?” Castiel asks both of them, and they both have differing answers. Apparently Dean is a milk guy, which Gabriel finds surprising. When they start eating, he gets the whole milk mustache bit, laughs when Gabriel points it out, and Castiel is the one who dabs a napkin across Dean’s upper lip.

The latter part of breakfast, when their plates were diminishing faster, Gabriel begins to wonder what they’re going to be doing the rest of the day. He begs the question, adding on, “We could go to see that one new exorcism movie, and it looks pretty sick based on the trailer.”

“No,” both Castiel and Dean say at the same time.

“Oh.” Gabriel wiggles his nose. “Hey, I’m not the biggest horror/suspense fan either. I prefer a good ol’ Romcom—”

“We can’t leave the house, together,” Castiel clarifies in a low voice. Gabriel’s brows knit together, because he hears that note of shame, guilt maybe.

“Ah, yeah. Now that you mention it, no, you wouldn’t want to be seen with your male prostitute, huh?” Gabriel stabs his fork into his plate, feeling heat flush into his face.

“If that were it, no one would have to know you’re getting paid,” Dean grumbles firm. “And you ain’t a prostitute.”

“Let me clarify, one more time,” Castiel adds. “That we cannot go out together. ‘We’ is the three of us, yes. But ‘we’ is also me and Dean.” His shoulders heave forward, an exhausted sigh pulling from his lips. “My job—I cannot be openly gay at the moment. I am often in the public eye, and the company’s shareholders would be, displeased to say the least. Never mind Dean being a target due to my own position, simply because he is my lover.”

It takes a few seconds to digest Cas’s words, and most of that time—drawn out in unsteady heartbeats—is spent with his eyes locked on Dean’s hands. They are clenched around his empty glass, knuckles straining like he wants to shatter it. A wedding band presses against it to, cutting into the skin of his left ring finger.

Gabriel understands, and nods. He was suddenly very humbled by the thought of being someone’s dirty secret. Here are two people who’re fucking engaged and Castiel can’t tell the world.

“So how’re you gonna get married if you work at a homophobic company?”

“I am only going to be there for two more weeks. Then, I will be taking a hiatus from the business world to...regain myself.” Castiel’s eyes flicker to his side, where Dean only glances up for a second before dropping down to the table again. He looks angry, but in a restrained sort of way. His knuckles are nearly white.

“Man, shit’s just really complicated for you two,” Gabriel murmurs. And, thankfully, the conversation dies off there. Castiel silently brings out plates of pie, which deceivingly taste like those of Gabriel’s own making.

* * *

 

A day in is not typically Gabriel’s idea of fun. The post-breakfast awkwardness, he thinks, will be followed by even more wayward glares, Dean snapping at Cas over trivial things. He’s wrong though. Dean and Cas’s relationship reminds him of a memory foam mattress. They can have all these misunderstandings, petty arguments that leave them both fuming, and only a short time later they are fucking snuggling on the couch while they watch Saturday morning cartoons.

Which happens to be Gabriel’s idea of good fun. He especially likes the older ones that are more reminiscent of his childhood. Tom and Jerry, Bugs Bunny, and basically anything else that came before the utter shit cartoons that haunt Saturday mornings now.

Castiel likes them too. They’re lined up on the sectional couch, much like the night before: Castiel sandwiched between Gabriel and Dean. The chuckling of Castiel next to him encourages Gabriel to express his more adolescent humor more. Cas seems most amused when anvils fall from an unsuspecting sky, leaving characters flattened. Oh, the anvils.

Dean seems to enjoy himself too, snorting in a more contented manner that leaves Gabriel thinking its Castiel’s entertainment that brings a smile to his lips.

Hours pass quickly, and Gabriel’s stunned when he looks at his cell phone and sees the time. It’s almost one o’clock and he hasn’t even had lunch. Immediately his stomach rumbles loud enough for Castiel to hear. So he makes lunch—nothing intricate, though, just a pot of spaghetti. Gabriel’s moans around the fork tell the guys what he doesn’t say: spaghetti is his favorite food.

He gets up from the dining table to take all their dishes to the sink, which Dean immediately objects to. Gabriel, however, thinks that he’s getting paid to do something so he petulantly clutches their dirty dishes to his chest and goes to the kitchen. He doesn’t hear Dean follow him though. He’s elbow-deep in dishwater when he feels a pair of hands set firmly on his hips.

Gabriel gasps, dropping a bowel into the water and causing it to splash up the front of his shirt. Dean’s body presses against his, his crotch pressing into Gabe’s ass—slightly pressing, but Gabriel makes no move to solicit a hard-on. Anyways, it’s not as if he can form a coherent thought with Dean’s lips at the side of his neck—mouthing like his skin was lathered with sugar or whipped cream. Jesus, the mental food metaphor just makes all the blood rush between his legs. Him having a food kink, and all. Maybe he should mention that…

Dean’s hands weave around Gabriel’s waist, hitching their bodies even closer as Dean’s nails scrape up Gabe’s abdomen. The water that seeped through his shirt slightly coats his stomach, and Dean’s warm hands smearing the wetness almost make him shudder.

“Heh,” he huffs, licking his lips until they’re appropriately damp. “Got a domestic kink? I could wear an apron the next time we do the dirty.”

“Shh,” Dean hisses into his neck, moving his lips to Gabriel’s ear. The rush of hot breath into his hairline makes Gabriel’s knees wobble.

That, however, was not a ‘no.’

Gabriel places his dishwater-soaked hands and pushes them against Dean’s wrists, directing his hands just a little lower. Dean’s thumbs hitch on his waistband, and that’s when he gets the picture.

“So needy,” Dean comments, pulling away from Gabriel’s touch only momentarily before turning him around and kissing him hard on the lips. It’s deep, and fleeting, and leaves Gabriel wobbly and leaning against the kitchen counter for support. After Dean pulls away, Gabe’s eyes linger on his lips, which are glistening under the fluorescent kitchen light. “I wanna wait, see how much you want it after a few days of you digesting that.”

“You’re that confident in your kissing ability?” Gabriel mutters, surprised that he’s able to make his voice sound more amused than breathy and, like Dean said, needy.

Dean glances up, considering his answer. “Yeah, I am.”

“For good reason, I guess. Damn.” Gabriel touches a finger to his lips. Dean’s right, he’ll be feeling that kiss for days.

 

* * *

 

Gabriel leaves later that afternoon, not for lack of wanting to hang around with Dean and Castiel, but just because Saturday nights belong to the happy couple. And he really doesn’t want to feel the resentment pang in his chest. He has no right to feel it, he knows that.

It’s perfectly clear that there are boundaries clearly defined in their relationship; especially when a text alert from his bank informs him that a lump sum of $1,200 has been deposited into his checking account.

* * *

Tuesday came in a downpour unlike Gabriel’d see in years. Inches of water sloshed down the streets, kicked off the pavement in momentary walls of dirty gray water with each passing car. Even walking less than a block from his apartment to the patisserie left Gabriel in desperate change of clothes.

Sam arrives soon after he does, in the same manner. As he towels his own hair, Cherub brings a dishrag for Sam to dry himself off with.

“You look like a wet dog,” Sam comments, referring to the state of Gabriel’s hair. Hey, it isn’t his fault that he is too lazy to go Fantastic Sam’s for a trim. Okay, well, that’s debatable. However, the thickness and prone-to-puffiness of his gorgeous locks are to be blamed on his lack of effort to tame his head.

“At least I don’t smell like one!” Gabriel cries back, pinching his lips. “Besides, I’m sexier wet.”

Sam lets out a prolonged “Why do you feel the need to brag on your sexiness? Like, every day?”

“So you admit that I am sexy? Ah, victory Sammy boy. That’s not you, it’s the smell of sweet victory.”

“I swear, if I didn’t know you were a decent guy, I’d accuse you of sexual harassment.”

“I don’t talk about my lovely penis around the customers, and that’s all that matters.” Gabriel smiles and throws his towel at Sam, who grimaces as he lays the soaked lump on the counter behind him

“Ugh, whatever. You’re as bad as my brother.”

“If your brother’s half the man as I am, he’s still hella cool.”

Sam dismisses that with a snort. “Oh, that reminds me. I wanted to ask if you could make more of those pies. I gave one to my brother and he was—well, to quote him—’Sammy, this is an oral orgasm’. Which, yeah, not a pretty image. But he really liked the pie and—well, I wanted to give him s’more.” Now the kid is being sheepish and kind of adorable. In a way. Gabe thinks that Sam is cute but really not his type, in the grand scheme of things.

Which is why Gabriel can’t say no. It’d be the equivalent of kicking a puppy. “Yeah, I could,” he murmurs. “It’ll cost ya, though.”

“I’ll cover your shift tomorrow,” Sam offers.

“Deal!”

 

* * *

 

So Gabriel makes two pies, one for Sam, and one for Gabriel to take over to Cas and Dean’s tonight. He packages them up neatly, adding the shop’s logo sticker to the top for good advertising, he guesses. Maybe Dean will like the pie so much that even after his little contract is up, he’ll come and get some pie occasionally and they can talk about cars (Dean has an Impala that Gabe hasn’t gotten to see, yet) and maybe they could think about it while not thinking about fucking.

And that train of thought is how Gabriel knows how bad he needs it. Dean did a really good job Saturday in leaving him hanging, having to jack off nightly in fear of the memory of that last kiss causing an epic case of blue balls.

They don’t have sex though that night. They order pizza and watch the fucked up remake of Carrie while eating greasy cheese pizza. Castiel rests his head against Dean’s shoulder as they watch the movie, but holds on to Gabe’s hand, squeezing it at every tense moment, relaxing when the music sways away from the possibility of despair on the movie screen.

When Gabriel leaves that night, he gets a stroke of Castiel’s fingers across his cheek as a farewell. Dean, however, grabs him by the face and kisses him deeply. Like their last, it doesn’t go on very long.

“Next time,” he breathes huskily, like he could taste that question—please?—on Gabriel’s lips. “Promise.”

Dean keeps his promise. Several times, actually.

Friday night they don’t even have dinner. Dean answers the door, eyes predatory and blown as he pulls Gabriel inside and slams the door behind him. Before Gabriel can even get in a hello, Dean has him pressed against the door, the jean-clothed crotches grinding together. Gabriel’s libido supplies his cock with the instant hard-on he needs, one that Dean feels hitch adjacent to his own. It brings a sweet moan coming from the man’s lips, and Gabriel quivers at the sound.

He starts to wonder where Cas is as Dean drags him upstairs, trying to keep his hands or lips on the man in one way or another, but the question is answered when Castiel is sitting in a plain fold-up chair next to the guest bed. A quiet observer, no. His role is much more vivid than the previous encounter the three of them shared in this room.

Castiel instructs Dean to remove clothing, how to touch Gabriel, how to touch himself, and it is nearly tentative when Castiel asks Gabriel to suck Dean’s penis. Like Gabriel would not bend to his will. Or, maybe he was just guilty for asking Gabe to do anything. Maybe it was easier to think that the $1,200 that sat in his bank account for all of a day went toward paying Gabriel to just lie back and take it up the ass.

He obliges Castiel’s request without hesitation. He even finds himself reveling in the soft way Dean cradled his cheeks as his head bobbed up and down, taking as much as he could before gagging. The warning Dean gave him was even softer, a small gasp, then, “Gabe, I’m gonna, do you…?”

And then Gabriel moaned around him in confirmation, the vibrations soliciting the salty orgasm right out of him.

Castiel scoots in close to watch Dean come, so clinical, so fascinated. Meanwhile, Gabriel rubs his thumb around the slit of his penis, trying to keep the electricity alive without coming. He wants to be fucked, as soon as Dean’s done being all blissed out.

“Gabriel, you may take him,” says Castiel suddenly.

“What?” Gabriel blinks.

Dean is boneless, wordless, but does lay down on his stomach. He pulls his knees up partly, fucking baring his ass to Gabriel. The position of his thighs also spread his cheeks, revealing puckered red and clearly lubed hole.

“Before you got here, Dean was readying himself. I supervised.” Castiel stands up briefly, laying his hand on Dean’s lower back. The man shivers beneath his touch. “Not many know that he loves taking it, Gabriel. He loves losing control. He has had to be so much. This is privileged.” He swipes his fingers up Dean’s spine, implying that the privilege had a double meaning. “I know, now you know. What shall you do with that information now?”

It is a question that doesn’t require an answer. Dean is clearly already prepped and Gabe’s so hard it hurts. He thinks that maybe a minute sliding in and out of there… and he’ll be coming harder than he has since—last week. Yeah, still, he can taste the blood on his tongue from biting his lip so damn hard. He wants it. His dick’s telling him he needs it. So.

He aligns himself quickly and strikes his hips forward, eliciting a groan from Dean. Gabriel feels himself tumbling, falling, and stills himself in order to not succumb completely to this. How often do you get a masculine guy like this taking it up the ass, reared like dog in heat? Fuck, he’s so damn tight to. All slick with whatever magic lube he fingered up in himself. The brief fantasy that maybe Dean came on his fingers and then used that to finger himself is what sends Gabriel’s hips into a desperate flurry of thrusts, and then he’s coming in Dean’s ass like a firehouse.

Spent and sweat-covered, Gabriel falls onto the bed, grateful that he hits a pillow on the first try. Eventually, Dean wiggles up the bed and uses one of Gabriel’s outstretched arms as a neck pillow. Looking over at Dean, Gabe swallows deeply. His skin glistens with a sheen of sweat, and for the first time he realizes that freckles dance across his nose.

On Gabriel’s other side, Castiel climbs into the bed. He scooches right up against Gabe’s shoulder, rests his arm over the middle of Gabriel’s chest to touch Dean’s cheek. Their eyes meet briefly, and it’s filled with just as much wonder as ever. But then Castiel’s eyes shift away, shift up to look into Gabriel’s.

“You are a beautiful sight, Gabriel,” he says so quietly, so awed. “You and Dean...you are perfect together.”

He guesses that he means their sex is pretty fucking intense, which is ten kinds of true. He wistfully agrees, “Yeah, we are.” And then he looks at Dean, whose eyes smile what his lips are too tired to form.

They lay there, so quiet, sound. Woven together like mismatched textiles that create a pattern that, somehow, makes complete sense.

 

* * *

 

The first thought of consciousness is how serene Gabriel fills. He doesn't know what he dreamed, and boy that's a relief, but he can smell the tang of woods. A forest, dampened by a fresh fall of rain. And then, then there is warmth. He opens one eye slowly, pleased that the light filtering through the curtains doesn't hurt his corneas. Then he opens the other.

A soft rumble vibrates against his chest, warm breath tickling at the hair on his abdomen.

It's Dean, slotted against him. More relaxed than Gabriel's ever seen him. They're both naked, but it isn't really sexual. Which, in retrospect, is really fucking weird because everything is sexual for Gabriel.

His next breath shudders passed his lips as he watches Dean. That one exhale flutters over Dean's face, rousing him. His features twitch, making Gabriel hold his breath. Fingers that he didn't even notice before press into his hips, pulling Dean even closer,

The moment Dean's eyes flutter open could have been framed and put on display, an exquisite sight. The greens of his eyes dance under Gabriel's awed gaze, until Dean is looking at him. It's a frozen expression that fills his face now. Gabriel half expects to be punched in the face, for fucking cuddling the guy in his sleep. But no fist comes. Dean doesn't even flail away, like so many men have upon sharing a sordidly gay night with him.

"Hey," comes from him, from Dean who blinks at Gabriel like he is something worth watching.

Gabriel finds his lips twitching up into a smile. "Hey yourself."

Dean runs his fingers up the side of Gabriel's body, and then winds around the center of his back. With the sudden leverage he flops on top of Gabriel, naked body straddling his own as he presses the deepest of kisses on Gabe's lips.

And that is the moment, Gabriel realizes with a sudden pit of despair falling in his stomach, he has fallen in love with Dean.

 

* * *

 

It's an irrational kind of feeling, Gabriel thinks after mulling over that fleeting internal declaration a few days. It doesn't make sense, but it provides a clarity in relationships that he's never seen before. His love life has been experienced through doors with narrow windows. The doors have been locked. He has been trapped. Suddenly, he doesn't. He's never been in love but this must be what it feels like.

But, it's not just Dean either. That'd be the simple explanation for a man raised to believe that monogamy and love were synonymous.

His new definition of happiness is not exclusively wrapped around Dean. It's not the way Dean can gently fuck him and then yield to him. It's not their shared interest in movies, in music, or Dean's ever-pleasing worship of Gabriel's pie-making skills. Embedded in the fantasy is a pair of guiding hands, a gentle and encouraging tongue when Gabriel is his most vulnerable. Blue eyes watching, a heart so large that he would allow Dean to fuck another man if it meant Dean being happy.

Gabriel loves how Castiel loves.

 

* * *

 

Gabriel freaks out when Tuesday comes. He was able to make it through Saturday morning with a little dignity; partially burying his intense feelings like they never crossed his mind, but that won’t be the case tonight. Sunday and Monday were spent mulling over all the possible consequences of his feelings, both on his on sensitive psyche and Dean and Cas’s relationship as well.

He’s already come to the fast conclusion that he wants his feelings to go away. He wants to be his normal old self, who can compartmentalize sex and not be romantically involved with anyone.

It’s even worse feeling this way knowing that he’s being paid for a service. After all, he received another direct deposit in his bank account on Sunday. He’s a player in their dynamics, a hole for Dean to stick it in and another warm body for Cas to boss around in bed. At least that’s what he tells himself. But then he remembers Cas’s fingers stroking through his short hair, and Dean’s lips slotting against his. Too goddamn intimate not to be real, but what does Gabriel know?

At work, Sam notices his lack of attention, and teases him at first. But when Gabriel hasn’t the energy to snap back with a remark, he lays off the insulting, and prompts Gabriel to clean a table when one’s empty. Sometimes Gabriel thinks Sam is a good kid, and this is one of those times.

Night comes and climbing into the agency’s car is routine. It makes him uncomfortable how accustomed he is to this lifestyle, because in fact he belongs to only two clients. He can’t even bring himself to call them clients; it makes him nauseated.

Cas is the one who answers the door tonight, with a smile that warm and filled with a greeting becoming more like a welcomed habit with each visit. Gabriel returns it with just as much enthusiasm, gaze locking with a pair of blue eyes that pull his stomach straight to the floor. He knows how Dean feels now, to want to kiss the hell out of a guy who really doesn’t like it all that much. It’s like there’s a hole eating in his chest, filled with the longing to reach out and brush his lips against Cas’s.

But he doesn’t act on that want, because he really doesn’t have the right. Castiel invites him in with a vague wave of his arm, and Gabriel follows. “Dean cooking?” he asks, though he doesn’t smell anything wafting into the foyer.

“No, actually, he is waiting upstairs.”

That’s how this Tuesday’s going to start, he thinks, swallowing around the nerves that’d been brewing in the pit of his stomach for days. He just has to compartmentalize these feelings, be his normal douchey self. Or his submissive self. Gabriel’s beginning to lose track of his different roles.

After they reach the top of the stairs, Castiel walks right by the guestroom. Gabriel’s brows furrow, because Cas didn’t instruct him to go inside. Is he supposed to know to do that by himself?

Gabriel doesn’t stop walking though. Castiel pushes on a door at the far end of the hallway, where light filters through the opening and casts both of their shadows on the wall behind them. He realizes very quickly that this room is their bedroom.

It’s a place of intimacy, he knows that automatically. In all the times he’s had sex or related in any intimate manner with Cas and Dean, it’s always been in the public spaces of the house or the guestroom. They are inviting him into their bed, the place that they are a couple independent of anything that Gabriel says or does or feels. All the boundaries are breaking now, and Gabriel is both terrified and excited by all the possibilities.

Dean sits on the edge of the mattress, only in his sweatpants and wife beater, it seems. Something easy to strip out of. Gabriel licks his lips, wondering what Cas has in store for them tonight. He came to the conclusion quickly that Cas is so dominant. Like, 50 Shades of Gray dominant, minus the cheesiness. He doesn’t like to label, but that list he filled out when he went to the agency? Yeah, Gabriel can say he’s done a lot of them. Orgasm denial is probably the most popular and, frankly, enticing of all Cas’s kinks.

So far, at least.

“I have something for you to put on,” Castiel murmurs, sliding a bag into Gabriel’s hands. “You can change in the bathroom.” He points to a door next to a chest of drawers. “We’ll be waiting.”

Gabriel waits to open up the bag until the bathroom door is closed behind him. His fingers delve between layers of tissue paper and then, then they feel softness. Cotton, tulle, familiar sensations. He draws the garment from the bag and feels his heartbeat take off quickly at the sight of—panties. Dark, royal purple. With black lace along all the hems.

He has never considered wearing women’s underwear, but he does vaguely remember checking off ‘feminization’ on his application as ‘willing to do’. He swallows, because honestly, he was expecting that whatever dude was fucking him would call his ass a vagina and that would be the extent of it.

But wearing panties…

An odd chill runs down his spine as he begins to strip, and a breath later he’s naked, eying his body in the mirror. The underwear lay limp in his open hands. He tells himself it’d probably be a good idea to put them on. He steps into one leg, then the other, and they’re halfway up his knees when he realizes he must have them on backwards. But when he turns them around, the piece of fabric that’s supposed to hold up his hock strains almost to the point of pulling the panties down altogether. He hikes the lace waistband up his hips and plucks. How long is he going to be in them, anyway?

Right after he takes a deep breath, which he intends to hold for a very long time, he steps back into the bedroom. Gabriel is proud of his body, but the panties make him feel vulnerable. Not because females are vulnerable, but because yielding to Cas and his requests peels back the layers that have prevented him from having real relationships. He likes it. He wishes that Cas wanted to touch him, like Dean does, and control him a little more. But he wouldn’t dare say that aloud.

Castiel eyes him, squinting as he absorbs the length of Gabriel’s body. Gabe shifts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, Gabriel, you look lovely. Don’t hide yourself from us,” he says quietly, standing up from where he was sitting next to Dean on the bed. He too looks a little hypnotized, making Gabriel embarrassed all the more. “Dean, would you like to show him what I picked out for you?”

“Yeah.” Dean stands up from the bed, wobbling as he pulls his shirt off—goddamn his chest—and then pushes his pants to the floor.

Gabriel almost whimpers. Dean is in panties, too.

Except, his are less lace, more satin. They’re pink with white polk-a-dots and, somehow, that suits him completely.

Castiel smiles warmly as he looks between the two of them. “You are both so gorgeous.” He rubs his hand across Dean’s shoulder as he leans in. “Now that you both are so pretty, you need to decide amongst yourselves who’s going to be the girl tonight.” Dean’s lip twitches, which captures Cas’s attention. “Or did you have another idea?”

“Mhm,” Dean murmurs with a nod. “I wanna taste him, want him to fuck my mouth. While I fuck his too.”

Gabriel shifts, feeling his cock throb at the very suggestion of a sixty-nine. He almost reaches between his legs to grab himself, but the neediness is a dull throb compared to what...Dean’s mouth will feel like.

“You think you can suck him off with these lips around your cock, Gabriel?” Gabriel nods greedily. Castiel smiles at this, and then climbs onto the bed, settling at the headboard. He crosses his ankles. “Then, do it.”

* * *

 

Gabriel told himself no more sleepovers on Tuesday nights, but this time Castiel doesn’t wake him up to leave. In fact, no one wakes him up, but he is roused from sleep when he feels the warmness disappear from the space between his arms. He was holding Dean, Gabriel knows that much.

Once he’s awake enough, Gabriel opens his eyes and peers around the room. Light comes from the bathroom, where he hears the familiar scraping sound of a toothbrush, and then someone spitting. Gabriel hobbles out of bed, wrapping a sheet around his lower half as he feels for a wall to guide him. He hangs on the bathroom door frame, spotting Dean in the mirror opposite looking back at him. “Sorry I woke you up.”

Gabriel shrugs. “It’s fine, I slept pretty well anyways.”

“That’s good.” Dean blinks and lays his toothbrush to the side, and then he turns around to Gabriel. “Last night was…nice.”

“Nice?” Gabriel scoffs. “You blow like a pro.”

Dean chuckles, and a little color bursts into his cheeks. “You’re not too bad yourself, man.” And it seems like the interaction may end there, but Dean surprises him. He always does. In spite of Gabriel’s overwhelmingly yuck morning breath, he envelops the space between them and plants a kiss on his lips. It doesn’t last long, which is fine, but their gazes linger on one another. It leaves Gabriel speechless. “I gotta get to work,” Dean says after a pregnant silence.

“Oh,” Gabe sputters. “What do you do, anyway?”

“I’m a teacher, high school.”

“Let me guess: gym?”

“Fuck no, US history.” Dean snorts. “Me? A gym teacher. I’d weigh about 300 pounds by now, eating my stress away, if that were the case.”

Dean pulls away, laughing and shaking his head as he does.

“Hey, it was a valid guess. Not gonna lie, my high school gym teacher wore short-shorts. Kinda had that image in my head, minus the old guy plus you, young hot guy,” Gabriel explains with an eye roll. “But, yeah—um. Teach history. Guide the youth. And I’ll see you… Friday?”

“Actually,” he starts, a grimace pulling on his lips. “No. I’m going to a wedding on Saturday in Indiana, and I gotta leave Friday morning to get there on time.”

There’s no hiding Gabriel’s disappointment. “Have fun, throw some rice for me.”

Dean smirks. “I will.”

 

* * *

 

“Dean isn’t here tonight,” Castiel says quickly when he answers the door Friday night, like he’s been holding the words in for hours.

“Yeah, he told me Wednesday morning that… he was going to a wedding?”

“I could not go,” says Castiel sadly. He invites Gabriel in, and they linger in the foyer for a while. Soft rock flows through the walls, maybe coming from that iHome in the kitchen. “I actually resigned today.”

“Man, that’s great!” Gabriel exclaims. “But hey, you got me. More fun for us, huh?” And the he comfortable saunters through the threshold, hands clasped behind his back. “Dinner and a movie, maybe?”

“That is what I planned,” Castiel replies sheepishly.

The dinner isn’t ornate, but it’s delicious. Castiel makes a mean batch of spaghetti with meatballs, which he says he rolled and baked himself. Gabriel finds himself sniggering to himself and says, without thinking, “You like to roll balls a lot, dontcha?”

Then he wants to bite his tongue, because, yeah. Cas doesn’t.

Instead of a stern, standoffish reply, Castiel smiles and shakes his head. “Only occasionally.”

Gabriel’s skin tingles, because, wow, that brings a thousand unwarranted naughty images fluttering into his mind. He clears his throat, using a large sip of coke to wash down the image of Castiel rolling one of his balls around in his mouth instead of a meatball. “Oh, well. That’s all fine and dandy.”

Castiel does not let Gabe wash dishes, but he does let him dry. It’s soothing, to tidy up the kitchen like regular cohabitors. It’s amazing that in the short time Gabriel’s been coming over here, he’s familiar with all the drawers and cabinets. He knows that Castiel likes his cups upside down (he’s heard Cas bitch and moan at Dean for not obliging that quirk).

After the kitchen is clean, they retreat to the living room and flip on the TV. At first, they sit an appropriate distance apart, maybe as two buds just hanging out would. Then Castiel stops flipping channels, settles on a vaguely funny sitcom, and sets the remote on the stable in front of him.

“Gabriel,” he murmurs, touching Gabriel’s knee and kneading his thumb into the side. “Lay down on my lap.”

At first, the request sends Gabriel’s mind into a loop. He doesn’t think he should be so close to Castiel, not when he has all these conflicting feelings dancing in the forefront of his thoughts. But he can’t say no, not just because he’s getting paid for this. He wants it.

And when he pulls his legs onto the couch and lays his head on the bridge of Cas’s thighs, he feels so warm. Castiel’s fingers thread in his hair, stroking him and petting him. It’s simple and intimate, leaving Gabriel’s thoughts like ash, intangible. He just wants. He nudges his head into the space of Cas’s lap and scoots closer, laying a hand over a knee while he lets his eyes flutter shut.

Calm comes over him, as the sound of the TV filters away and Castiel’s fingers become more kneading than stroking through his scalp. Gabriel flips onto his shoulder so he can slide in deeper, but does not expect to feel a bulging hardness against his cheek. And then Cas’s breath hitches ever so quietly, but in Gabriel’s ears it’s loud enough. Experimentally, he nudges his cheek again, exhilarated and pleased by the groan that comes through his lips.

Cas’s fingers thread even tighter in Gabriel’s hair, and he grins because Cas is hard for him. Somehow getting a self-proclaimed demisexual turned on is like some milestone for him...but it also means that, yes, he can try this intimacy thing with Cas now too. He can see if what he’s feeling is what he thinks it is. Solidify whatever bond hangs between them, unspoken. Unconsummated.

Gabriel lifts his head, raising his eyes to meet Cas’s. The guy looks terrified, shocked by his own arousal.

“Do you want me to take care of that?” Gabriel asks under his breath. Castiel’s quick nod makes his heart take off, excitement pumping between his own legs. Castiel releases his hair as Gabriel situates himself above his lap. He unzips Cas’s jeans with unintentional slowness. He just has to watch Cas’s reaction to everything he does. This may be a one-time thing, and he wants the image of blue eyes widening as he comes emblazoned in his memories forever.

But now he’s getting ahead of himself.

“Gab...riel,” Castiel mutters quietly as Gabe pushes Cas’s blue jeans down his hips along with his boxers, freeing his half-hard cock from the cotton. “This is unusual. I don’t...I want…”

“Just concentrate on what it feels like?” Gabriel suggests, closing his eyes and blowing a breath over the tip. Castiel shudders, pressing his back deeper into the couch and moaning. He’s really sensitive, growing even harder when Gabriel touches his fingers to the base and strokes along the vein. He strokes once, twice, and then prepares himself to cover the head of Cas’s cock with his lips and running his tongue around the head. Castiel’s fingers find their way back in Gabriel’s hair, tugging harder than he’s used to—but damn it feels good—as Gabriel begins to take him down his throat.

He pulls his best tricks, blows out his cheeks and rubbing the cockhead all around in his mouth before going as far down to the base as he can go without gagging. Dean is long and not thin, but definitely thinner than Cas. He’s shorter, but thicker, so it isn’t unbelievable when Gabriel’s able to take nearly the entire length into his mouth.

Cas’s breaths pick up, and he’s so damn sensitive that he must be close already. Gabriel doesn’t plan on not getting a taste of Cas when he comes, but he certainly doesn’t expect Castiel to hold him down and demand, “Swallow, Gabriel,” like the fucking Dom he is.

He comes hot and salty—bitter waves of semen—down his throat. Gabriel works his mouth, begging his throat to cooperate and take every drop that Cas gave him. When he’s sure it won’t spill out his lips, he pulls back and sucks lightly at the tip, smiling as Castiel moans out his name, repeatedly.

After, it’s awkward. Castiel is red and embarrassed, maybe even guilty. He pulls up his boxers and pants, zipping himself up hastily and completely ignores that Gabriel’s aching between his own legs. He has needs, too.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, licking his lips to make sure there are no stray drops of come that would make Cas even more uncomfortable.

“Dean and I never talked about this,” Cas murmurs, not looking Gabriel in the eye.

“You don’t think that he’d be okay with you getting some, too?”

Then his gaze hardens. “If you can suck me off—if I can tolerate sex—then what do we need you for?” his asks with a hard edge to his voice.

And it does its job. Gabriel feels the color seep from his face, and he looks Castiel square in the face. “Go fuck yourself.” He feels himself leaving, feels his legs moving beneath him. Cold summer night bites at his skin, and then he realizes it. He forgot his jacket.

 

* * *

 

“Do you have anyone, Sam?” Gabriel asks the next Monday, when the patisserie is slow and Gabriel has found himself conveniently stuffing his face with cream puffs that Cherub made and are about to expire anyway. Admittedly, he has a bad habit of eating his feelings away.

Sam looks up, a gentle gaze rising from the pages of his book. It seems like he’s surprised Gabriel’s talking to him at all, given that his mood’s been sour for the past week.

“I have a girlfriend,” Sam says, and Gabriel can see the freaking twinkle in his eye, the twitch of his lip like he’s suppressing a smile. Like he feels like it’d be inappropriate. “Her name’s Jess.”

Sam’s much younger than him, and he wants to tell the kid to embrace that love. Shout it on his lungs. Gabriel’s been too afraid to let his heart give in before, and now the straw broke the camel's back, but he founds himself drowning in water instead of being cushioned by the sand. He doesn’t say any of these things, though. He can’t possibly let his guard down that far, so he asks, “Is she hot?”

The kid briefly glares, but doesn’t give him lip about it. “She’s actually the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, second to my mom.”

Gabriel perks at the opportunity to tease. “Aw, we gotta a mama’s boy in the house!”

“Well, not really,” Sam says. “I’ve only seen her in pictures. She died when I was young.”

“Oh.” Gabriel frowns. “Man, I’m with you there. Mine died when I was four. You?”

“Six months.”

“Hard life, man,” Gabriel mutters quietly.

Sam nods once. “Yeah. But, um. It was alright. Dad worked a lot, so it was just me and Dean most of the time.”

Gabriel’s thoughts come to a halt, the equivalent of a ten-car pileup in the forefront of his mind. Dean. It’s not an uncommon name, but it’s not one that Gabriel thinks of often. He’s only met one man in his life with that name. It seems like a huge conclusion to draw, to think that his goddamn coworker is his client’s brother. That would be his goddamn luck; the kind that would make his life hell if Dean ever even mentioned the job that Gabriel has on the side…

“Dean,” Gabriel croaks, words pulled from his lips by miracle only. He never asked Dean for his last name, never thought it was that important. Funny how it holds the ultimate importance in this moment. “Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah?” Sam says. “You know him?”

“He’s got that Impala, doesn’t he?”

A smile spreads across Sam’s lips, and the kid’s oblivious to the thoughts slamming around in Gabe’s brain with each resounding thump of his heart. “He does. Man, what a coincidence. How do you know him?”

“Worked with him,” Gabriel says after a decent pause.

“At the school?”

Shit, right, Dean’s a goddamn teacher. Gabe chuckles nervously, delving into his decent repertoire of lies to get out of this questioning. “I used to be a janitor. He… he liked my pie.”

“Goddamn! He loves your pie, wants it all the time. It’s funny, I’ve thrown your name around, but he’s never said anything about knowing you.”

“You...told him about me?”

Sam’s brows pull together. “Yeah, he was asking about the bakery and who I worked with. I believe his exact were, ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I could kiss the genius that made this shit’. I told him your name…”

“I guess I wasn’t that memorable then,” Gabriel chuckles, so fake and angry sounding that Sam backs off.

“Dean isn’t like that—”

No, he’s just a lying son of a bitch, Gabriel wants to scream. He knew that Gabriel worked with Sam, with his own goddamn brother. Sam doesn’t know, but how long before Dean lets Gabriel’s whore-status slip? How long before he has to up and move again, away from this big stinking pile of bullshit that’s piling on top of him? It wouldn’t be the first, or the second time he’s ran away. That’s the drifter life, no attachments. He’s never been so disappointed in himself and the need to run until now, when he really has no choice.

“Just. Stop.” Gabriel rubs his brow with the rough pads of his fingers. “I—I need to go, Sam. I’m sorry. Tell Cherub sorry…” And he unties his apron and throws it over the counter, patting his pocket quickly for his keys before he walks out the shop door.

 

* * *

 

His car is a goddamn clunker and Gabriel knows it. But on the few occasions where walking or bus doesn’t really cut it - either due to distance or impatience - a means to get around is nice to have. It’s a lot of trouble to start at first, but when it grinds to life Gabriel exhales, puts her in gear, and drives.

He knows every turn to get to their house, Dean and Cas’s. A glance to the clock in his dashboard tells him, at the very least, Dean will be home. He doesn’t really think he can look Castiel in the eye anyhow, after what he said Friday. The very thought of his words makes bile rise in his throat and he squeezes his steering wheel a little tighter.

Knuckles white, breath held, he slows in the gated community, searches for their house. It’s easier to find in broad daylight. The garage is open, the sun reflecting off the bumper of a black Impala parked inside. He realizes very quickly that he’s showing up uninvited. This is bad, very very bad.

But bad ideas are part of Gabriel’s lifestyle. He’d be—disingenuous to give up on bad habits now.

The first couple of minutes that Gabriel knocks on the door, there is no answer. He begins to wail on it, his hand open as he slaps it against the wood.

When Dean opens the door, the first words that come out of Gabriel’s mouth are, “Finally, you dick.”

“Gabriel,” Dean rasps, eyes widening. It’s then Gabriel sees the water dripping out of his hair and down his face, his skin red and flushed. Fresh out of the shower, he realizes with an unwanted burning need sizzling in his stomach.

“Well, you gonna let me in?”

“By all means.” Dean frowns as Gabriel pushes past him.

Once the door is closed, Gabriel starts. “You knew where I worked, and that I worked with your brother,” he accuses. Dean only stares, eyes narrowed, but doesn’t deny a thing. “You ate my pies, the ones he gave you. You knew who made them. You knew my name. You knew it was me for weeks and you never said anything? Gave me a heads up that, ‘hey, my little prostitute, you work with my brother.’ Oh, well, I guess this is funnier anyways. For you, maybe. I’m not laughing here!”

“Gabe,” Dean sighs painstakingly. He runs his fingers through his wet hair, and then rubs his damp fingers on the side of his shirt. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I really didn’t think it mattered. What I do is really none of Sam’s goddamn business.”

“What you do,” Gabriel repeats. So he’s a ‘what’ now. “Who you fuck. Tell me, Dean, does he know about Cas?”

“Of course he does!”

“But he can’t know about your man-in-waiting, huh. It’s better that way. But I can’t risk you telling him. I…” Gabriel blinks, eyes drawing toward the door. “I think I better scram.

Dean steps in front of Gabriel, between him and the door. “No, don’t go.”

“You can’t make me stay for the money, not anymore,” Gabriel says evenly. “Move it, Dean.”

“This hasn’t been about the money since the first time I—we—you know. We had sex. It’s not like that,” Dean breathes out hard and fast.

“Then tell me what it’s like, because if it wasn’t about the money then why do I keep getting direct deposits into my bank account? I mean, I got one yesterday. But I guess you guys thought that’d keep me satisfied and running right back, huh?”

“What in the ever-loving fuck are you talking about?” Dean yells, eyes bulging as he shakes his head. “The thing, for the escort service, that was an upfront thing! Whatever money you’re getting, we gave before we even met you, dude. But I swear to God.” The huge gap between them quickly becomes filled, Dean standing right in front of Gabriel. A breath or two, maybe. Gabriel smells Dean’s aftershave, thick and intoxicating. “I know Cas said stupid shit last week. But that’s kind of what he does. It doesn’t take ten years for two dudes to get engaged just because one’s in the closet and kind of doesn't like sex. There’s a lot of other shit in there too. He just.” Dean makes an exasperated groan and closes his eyes. “I like you, and so does he.”

Gabriel lets the words sink in. The knowledge that neither Cas nor Dean has been consciously paying for his services makes a warm heat bubble in his chest. He doesn’t feel like property, he feels human. And the rest of that… well, he feels wanted. Grounded. The need to run flitters in his chest, but he guesses it will be there as long as he has doubts. And he’s always had his doubts about everything.

“What is this?” Gabriel asks quietly. “Because I got feelings too, but I don’t know how this would ever work.”

Dean shrugs, bowing his head. “Man, I don’t know either. I just know that, when you’re with us, I feel like there’s something more. I love Cas, I do, but I think that,” he says quietly, bringing his hand to Gabe’s cheek. Gabriel flinches from the touch, not sure how to respond when Dean’s thumb swipes beneath his eye, so warm and filled with unspoken words. “You make me happy, in a really weird way.”

“Ugh, thanks,” Gabriel mumbles dumbly.

“Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“Maybe I don’t,” Gabriel challenges.

Then Dean kisses him, lips deep yet tender as he causes Gabriel to yield over his control with a small whimper that makes him blush.

“Hey,” Gabriel says after the kiss breaks. “For the record, I like you guys too. Even though Cas is a fucking asshole.” He pauses. “We can try this… but I don’t know how this poly-partner-thing will work out.”

Dean nods, and they both agree that it’d be best to talk about their situation more in-depth when Castiel gets home from work. Meanwhile, they settle in the living room with a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa, watching Friends reruns on the big screen. This, this he could get used to. Even though he’s still angry… he cannot help but feel the weight of absence when Cas isn’t here.

* * *

The sound of a door opening and closing brings both Dean and Gabriel to attention. Moments later, Cas enters the living room, still dressed in a finely trim suit that Gabriel can only assume is something a top-notch CEO would wear on a day-to-day basis. Upon seeing Gabriel, Cas’s eyes soften, taking on a hurtful sorrow that seeps off his features.

“Gabriel,” Castiel says, quiet and pained. “Gabriel, I’m so sorry about what I said. It was inappropriate, and so very untrue.”

“Dude,” Gabriel replies as he holds up a hand, stopping him there. “Let’s just agree that you’re an asshole, and then move on. Sound good?”

“I am an asshole.” Castiel’s staunch agreement is almost comical. He takes a few steps closer. “Are you truly going to forgive me? I would not mind if you threw a punch.”

“Don’t make me an offer I can’t refuse, now, Cas,” Gabriel warns. “But, yeah. I am. Because I’m a fucking good guy who knows a gay freak out when I see one, even if you aren’t ashamed of your gayness. But, what is unforgivable is that rocking hard-on you left me with.”

“I promise to make it up to you.” Castiel blinks. If he is aware of his offer, and the innuendo behind it, it does not show.

And, well, that excites Gabriel. He lets a smile crawl up on his lips, and his eyes flutter shut. This moment imprints on his thoughts, as a crossroad. Something great to come, even if it may not last. It’s not logical, but it’s...what he wants.

Living for himself may just be the best idea he’s ever had.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Shout out to [Kenzie](http://gadreil.tumblr.com) for encouraging me to soldier on.


End file.
